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THE DEVILS’ NEST 















































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THE:' DEVILS' NEST 




















































THE DEVILS’ NEST 


(A NOVEL) 


By 

HENRY HOWARD HARPER 

WITH ETCHED FRONTISPIECE BY 

W. H. W. BICKNELL 


“Verily doth this nest seem the 
chosen haunt of evil shades.” 


PRINTED PRIVATELY 


BOSTON MDCDXXIII 



Copyright, 1923, By 
Henry Howard Harper 




THE TORCH PRESS 
CEDAR RAPIDS 
IOWA 


DEC 26’23 


©C1A7G5458 


TO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW 

Etta M. Rogers Young 

WHO LISTENED PATIENTLY, ATTENTIVELY, AND 
SOMETIMES EXCITEDLY, TO A READING 
OF THIS STORY 


The Author 




THE DEVILS’ NEST 
Chapter I 

It was Sunday, in the latter part of April. 
After a late breakfast I lingered at the table, 
scanning the real estate advertisements in the 
morning paper. My bachelor quarters in a New 
York apartment house, though cozy, were not 
commodious, and in view of the approaching sum¬ 
mer I had begun to concern myself with the 
matter of finding a retreat in the country. A 
number of places had already been inspected; 
some were too large, others too small; some too 
remote from the city, others too near; and for 
one reason or another all were objectionable. A 
pessimistic acquaintance had lately cautioned me 
that there was but one drudgery harder than run¬ 
ning a farm, and that was the act of finding a 
satisfactory farm to run. But the matter of 
drudgery did not discourage me; I was looking 
for a particular kind of place — dififering widely 
from the commonly accepted notions of the aver¬ 
age farm-hunter. 

[ 9 ] 


In the course of my reading I came upon the 
following advertisement:— 

For sale, or to let, a country place; large old colo¬ 
nial house, in the Catskill mountains; antique furniture. 
Of great historic interest, and rustic surroundings, 
with unsurpassed view. An ideal location for a sani¬ 
tarium, or a quiet retreat for one engaged in literary 
pursuits. . . . [et cetera]. 

The advertisement further designated the place 
as “The Evergreens,” gave the location, on the 
Hudson river, “about two hours by train from 
New York City,” and requested applicants to 
apply to a certain real estate and insurance agent 
in a small village, a few miles from the spot 
where the aforesaid historic mansion “nestled in 
the pines.” The idea of the sanitarium did not 
allure me, nor had I any budding ambition in the 
line of literary pursuits. (Indeed the suggested 
appropriateness of the place as a retreat for a 
literary artist struck me as being rather queer, 
until I learned afterwards that its last occupant 
had been a poet.) But the “bracing mountain 
air,” the freedom of the country, the evergreens, 
the historic mansion with its spacious rooms and 
great stone-hearthed fireplaces, all appealed to me. 

I called my man “Chops,” and told him we 
would go to the country next day. Chops is a 
product of Egypt that I imported from Cairo. 


[ IO ] 


He was recommended to me by a man who had 
employed him as a guide on a long trip up the 
Nile. My interest in him was first aroused by 
his familiarity with the traditions of his people 
and his country. He related with great fluency 
the history of the Egyptian Pyramids,—how the 
huge blocks of stone were floated on barges 
across the valley from the quarries, which lay 
opposite Cairo and are visible to the naked eye 
from the Pyramids. This work of transporta¬ 
tion, he said, was done in seasons when the Nile 
inundated that section of the country. When 
the foundation stones were laid the sand from 
the desert was carried in and deposited around 
the great base — in one of the pyramids, more 
than seven hundred feet square — and as each 
tier of stones was laid the sand pile on all four 
sides grew apace with the edifice until the top¬ 
most stones, nearly five hundred feet high, were 
laid. One would suppose that as the pyramid 
grew in height the stones would be gradually re¬ 
duced in size; but it appears that those people 
had no such ideas of economy in labor. These 
huge blocks of granite, weighing several tons 
each were dragged and pushed inch by inch up 
the graduated incline of the mammoth heap of 
sand, so that when the pyramid was completed it 
stood in the center of a mound of millions of 
[ ii ] 


tons of sand, — which was then carried back into 
the desert. 

Each king in his turn built a pyramid as a tomb 
for himself, and after completing the work he 
looked it all over carefully to see that it was big 
enough to accommodate his sacred body. Old 
King Cheops outstripped them all in the magni¬ 
tude of his structure, which still bears his name. 
My man Chops said that for more than twenty 
years nearly a hundred thousand slaves were em¬ 
ployed in the undertaking. He knew more about 
that colossal pyramid, both inside and out, than 
the man who built it, and he could scamper up to 
its dizzying height with the agility of a squirrel. 
Therefore I nick-named him Clw-ops, which was 
later abbreviated to plain “Chops.” Not that he 
lacked names, for he owned an elongated list of 
them that attested his fealty to most of the great 
Egyptian rulers for the past thousand years. 

During a winter I spent in Cairo, Chops served 
me as a sort of body-guard in protecting me from 
the omnipresent hordes of solicitous guides who 
hover around you and pester you like a swarm 
of hungry mosquitoes every time you make an 
appearance on the street; and for this he earned 
my everlasting gratitude. When about to take 
my leave of him I offered him a ioo-piaster bank 
note, which he declined to accept, saying that I 

[ 12 ] 


had already paid him well for all he had done. 

“But I wish you to accept this as an expression 
of my appreciation of your service to me,” I ex¬ 
plained. He shook his head, and I thought he 
seemed hurt, or sad about something. It was a 
new experience, having a liberal “tip” refused by 
an Oriental. Wondering what the fellow’s mo¬ 
tive was, I asked— 

“What, then, can I give you as a token of my 
gratitude?” Like a flash his face lit up.— 

“Take me with you to America.” 

“But what shall I do with you there?” I 
countered in a half-protesting tone. “This is 
your home, and there everything will be strange 
to you. You would die of homesickness.” 

“I look after you here,— I take care of you 
there. No one molest you when I look after you.” 

Little suspecting my future need of any such 
service, I explained that America was a highly 
civilized country, where we had no use for body¬ 
guards or dragomen; but he insisted that he could 
be useful to me in other ways. He had a pair 
of keen, wide-set eyes that looked out appealingly 
from a dark, handsome visage, and his magnifi¬ 
cent physique attested his ability to look after 
me in any ordinary emergency. I had just seen 
him shoulder my ponderous two-hundred pound 
trunk and carry it down three flights of stairs at 

[ 13 ] 


the hotel in Cairo with as much grace and ease as 
if it had been a hand-bag. 

At first thought the idea of encumbering my¬ 
self with this human charge struck me as a big 
responsibility, and observing my hesitation he 
hastened to add, by way of good measure, — “And 
I keep your clothes and shine your shoes.” I hired 
him on the spot, and have had him ever since, 
without ever having regretted my rather precipi¬ 
tate action. 

After a train ride of nearly three hours we 
arrived at the village mentioned in the advertise¬ 
ment and with but little difficulty we found the 
office of the real estate agent. The young lady 
in charge said he was out, but was expected in 
very soon, so we sat down and waited. In half 
an hour or so he came in, accompanied by a well 
dressed lady and gentleman, whom I took to be 
man and wife. The agent approached me and 
desired to know in what way he could serve me. 

“I came to look at the estate you advertised —• 
The Evergreens/’ I observed that the other man 
and his lady exchanged glances, then they looked 
over at me and both smiled. 

“I hope I have not arrived too late,” I said. 
The agent glanced uneasily at the other man, who 
answered for him. — 


[ 14 ] 


“You have nothing to worry about on our ac- 
count/' 

It was not what he said, so much as it was the 
way he said it that made me wonder at his mean¬ 
ing, and what had caused their amusement. 

“Perhaps you know the place," I ventured, 
hoping to draw some explanation from him. 

“We have just returned from there," said the 
man. “The view is all one could wish. We 
found the house most interesting, but my wife 
thought it a little too remote from the city." 

The agent smiled approvingly and adroitly 
turned the man's attention to some other proper¬ 
ty, while I withdrew and waited. Presently he 
announced his readiness, and we took our de¬ 
parture. 

Three miles or so up the river from the village 
we turned off from the main road into the forest, 
and for another two miles or more we followed 
a narrow deserted roadway, the last half-mile 
winding up a steep ascent through scraggy trees 
and projecting ledges. The road was much over¬ 
grown with brush, and beset with occasional 
sharp angles. The aspect ahead was both bleak 
and wild. At length we came out into an opening 
on the hillside. It appeared to have been a field; 
and on beyond, hovering among the evergreens 
at the summit, we could see the chimney tops 

[ 15 ] 


of a large house, with two or three greyish-look¬ 
ing outbuildings. Another five minutes brought 
us to the front yard, commanding an expansive 
view of the valley of the Hudson and the distant 
hills. The approach from the road to the house 
led through a wide gateway marked by two great 
stone posts in a wall that must have been fully six 
feet high before it tumbled down. The large 
picketed iron gate was off its hinges and leaning 
against the post from which it had once been 
swung. The agent said this stone wall, which 
surrounded the house and perhaps half an acre 
of ground, had been built as a protection against 
hostile Indians. Inside there were evidences of 
flower beds, tiled pathways and arbors, all de¬ 
signed in good taste, but sadly neglected and clut¬ 
tered with dead weeds and budding bushes. 

Goldsmith must have had some such place in 
mind when he wrote, — 

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 

And the long grass o’ertops the mouldering wall. 

The tall sombre trees rocked and creaked dis¬ 
mally in the mist-laden northeaster that had 
sprung up; the house with its small projecting 
front porch was unpainted and weather-beaten; 
the blinds hung askew—what had not fallen off; 
many of the windows were broken; some were 
boarded up; the massive front door was without 
[ 16 ] 


latch or knob, and added to this condition of 
ruin and neglect there was an air of mystery 
that intensified the loneliness of the situation, and 
appeared to placard the premises with the warn¬ 
ing sign “Keep out!” 

There was no friendly animal or human being 
to greet us, no smoke issuing from the chimneys, 
no evidence of domesticity, and no other sign of 
life about the premises, save a meddlesome jay 
bird that cawed vociferously at us three or four 
times from his lofty perch in a nearby tree, then 
flew away leaving us to ponder alone on the 
dreary aspect, which seemed a fitting habitation 
only for bats and owls. The scene of desolation 
was enough to dishearten any prospective tenant. 
It reminded me of Thomas Hood’s lines — 

On every side the aspect was the same, 

All ruined, desolate, forlorn and savage. 

After viewing the surroundings for some time 
in silent contemplation I turned and looked at 
Chops who stood close behind. He met my in¬ 
quiring gaze with a face as grave and unmoved 
as the Egyptian Sphinx. 

“What do you think of it, Chops?” 

“I go where you go,” he said in an even but 
positive tone. 

As we approached the house the agent took 
out a large iron key, unlocked the front door and 

[ 17 ] 


pushed it open. When it swung back on its rusty 
hinges it reminded me of the musical doors in 
the Baptistry of St. John at Rome, though the 
sound produced in this case was less musical. We 
all passed in and stood looking about. 

I have been in the foul-aired underground 
tombs of the Kings and Tyrants of Jerusalem; I 
have visited the last ghostly abiding-place of the 
terrible Mamelukes in the land of the Pharaohs; 
I have groped through the dark, musty, rat-in¬ 
fested sepulchral chambers inside the Egyptian 
Pyramids, and I have traversed the narrow, 
damp, subterranean passage-ways in the Cata¬ 
combs at Rome, where the avenging ghosts of 
untold thousands of martyred Christians hold 
high carnival at mid-day, and the grinning skele¬ 
tons seem to blink their eyes in the glare of your 
torch; but never before did I breathe an atmos¬ 
phere that produced such a weird, uncanny 
feeling as I experienced on entering this old aban¬ 
doned house. Outside it was cheerless enough, 
but inside, the gloom was accentuated by the 
chilled musty air, the darksome rooms with their 
closely drawn blinds, the creakiness of the floors 
and the general disorder of the antiquated furni¬ 
ture. 

In the small square front hall-room, with its 
high ceiling and barren walls, there was but a 

[ 18 ] 


single piece of furniture, — a large coffin-shaped 
chest, which gave the place the appearance of a 
sepulchre, and looked as if it might contain the 
remains of the house's last occupant. Chops was 
not without a sense of humor, and the invasion of 
tombs had been a part of his vocational training. 
He walked directly over to the chest, raised the 
lid and peered in; then he turned to me with a 
look of grave concern. — 

“He's gone!" he exclaimed. 

The agent looked at me with manifest surprise. 
— “Then you knew that he killed himself?" he 
said. 

“Who killed himself?" 

“Why, the Poet; he was the last man who 
lived here. Your man seems to know the story. 
The poor fellow was thought to be in the last 
stages of consumption, and I guess he was dis¬ 
couraged because his poetry didn't sell. He acted 
queer at times, — some of the people hereabout 
thought he was crazy because he lived here all 
alone. He brought that big chest here from 
somewhere, and when they opened it they found 
a pillow and some shirts and handkerchiefs in it, 
all blood-stained. You know in olden times peo¬ 
ple used to prepare their own sarcophaguses be¬ 
fore they died, and I guess this Poet wanted to 
do something queer, so he got that chest to be 

[ 19 ] 


buried in. But when they broke into the house, 
after not seeing him for two or three weeks, his 
body had disappeared. But that’s nothing against 
the place,” he hastened to assure me. 

“And that, I suppose, is how you came to ad¬ 
vertise the peculiar fitness of this place as a resort 
for writers? You seem to have a rather grim 
sense of humor.” 

“Then you are a writer?” he asked, a marked 
eagerness suddenly kindling in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the writing of 
books is a vocation for the learned. I claim no 
such distinction.” 

“Too bad—because there’s a great unexplored 
field here. This house is full of traditions, and—” 

“And ghosts ?” 

“No, I didn’t say that, but what I was going 
to say, is that you look like a man that could 
write, and I thought if you bought this estate and 
lived right here in the atmosphere awhile, it 
wouldn’t take much brains or experience to write 
a great story about it. The traditions of this 
house are worth a fortune to anyone that can 
put them on paper, and I wouldn’t be a bit sur¬ 
prised if you could make enough out of the story 
to pay for the place. There are all sorts of local 
legends and superstitions about this house; but 
of course anyone can see that you are smart 

[ 20 ] 


enough not to be frightened by the superstitions 
of these country people. You know when you 
write a historical story like this would be, it don’t 
require any imagination, or much learning; you 
just write it the same as you’d write a letter to 
someone, and it isn’t so much a matter of stylish 
writing as it is what you have to write about. 
I’m sure you could easily get onto the knack of 
it, and you know everyone’s just crazy about 
traditions and stories of old haunted houses.” 

He ran on in this manner for sometime, until 
I was tempted to interrupt and remind him that 
I should be more interested in looking at the 
house than in listening to a dissertation on how 
to write stories. 

“Now, if I lived in this house,” he persisted, 
“the ghosts and strange noises wouldn’t bother 
me a bit; and still they’d make mighty valuable 
material for a story.” At this juncture a start¬ 
ling noise came from the next room. It sounded 
as though someone had slammed a door. The 
doughty agent jumped, as if a shot had struck 
him in the foot, and looked at me in great alarm. 
I turned to Chops, whose sombre face betrayed no 
trace of emotion. The front door stood wide 
open, and a stiff breeze was blowing in; noting 
which I supposed of course this accounted for a 
door being blown shut in the adjoining room. But 

[ 21 ] 


the agent was not so easily reassured, and he 
made but a poor attempt to conceal his fright. 

“D-d-don’t be afraid,” he quavered, hesitating 
in the doorway while Chops and I went into the 
front room at the right, from which the noise 
had issued. We raised the blinds and looked 
about. The walls were adorned with a great 
number of stuffed birds and animals — heads of 
elk, deer, moose, bears, buffalo, and other tro¬ 
phies, giving it the appearance of a hunters’ 
lodge. In a back corner at the left stood a large- 
timbered monstrosity of antique construction, 
which looked like a cross between an old-fash¬ 
ioned square piano and a four-posted bed, and in 
the opposite corner at the right there was a door 
(the one that had slammed) leading into the 
kitchen. With every gust of wind the windows 
rattled noisily in their loose-fitting casements. 

We made our way cautiously about the other 
downstairs rooms, staring curiously at their 
dusty, ill-assorted contents. All the while as we 
gazed about, the agent kept up a voluble flow of 
information about the house and its furnishings, 
in an effort to reconcile me to the appearance of 
things by enumerating the great personages and 
important events associated with its traditions. 
He liked the word traditions, which he used fre¬ 
quently, feeling perhaps that they made the place 

[ 22 ] 


more marketable. Every piece of furniture had 
a history that would have excited the admiration 
of any collector of antiques; and each room had a 
story all its own. This one was noted as the 
place where four hostile Indians had gained en¬ 
trance through the window one dark night, and 
while in the act of tomahawking the aged oc¬ 
cupant they were set upon and slaughtered by 
his two sons who came from another part of the 
house in response to their father's cries. To at¬ 
test the truth of the story there were the four 
evidential Indian scalps suspended from the bar¬ 
rel of an old flintlock that hung over the door. 
It was said to be one of the weapons used in sub¬ 
duing the murderous invaders. 

Another room was made famous by a great 
hero of Revolutionary times who, while resting 
there over night, was attacked by two Tory spies, 
disguised as friendly Indians. After beating 
their victim into insensibility and robbing him of 
some important war documents with which he 
was entrusted for conveyance to headquarters 
they left him lying in the corner; but instead of 
making a hasty exit they stopped to examine the 
papers. While they were bending over the light, 
eagerly scanning their coveted prize, the erst¬ 
while vanquished messenger regained his senses, 
and drawing his pistol, of which they had 

[ 23 ] 


neglected to relieve him, he raised himself on one 
elbow and shot one of them dead in his tracks. 
The other took fright, dropped the papers and 
plunged out through the window, the doors hav¬ 
ing been locked as a precaution against assistance 
reaching the lone man from another part of the 
house. I wanted to ask what the hero was doing 
while the villains were bolting the doors, but 
after all, that was an inconsequential detail and 
we shouldn't be hypercritical when listening to a 
good story. 

In a third room two great generals of Revolu¬ 
tionary fame once spent a sleepless night going 
over the plans of an important attack that was 
to begin at daybreak. And so on, and on. Even 
the kitchen had its touch of romantic history. 

After a desultory inspection of the lower floor 
we proceeded up the stairway, every step of which 
creaked and groaned as if crying out with pain 
under our weight; and had one believed in elves 
and goblins it would have been easy to fancy 
that their mournful, squeaky voices were protest¬ 
ing this invasion of their quiet retreat. 

The upstairs corridor was a dismal, poorly 
lighted place, and one could readily have imag¬ 
ined that the first doorway would open upon some 
startling apparition; and that a hobgoblin lurked 
in every closet. Then, too, the agent had a way 

[ 24 ] 


of opening the doors that was not altogether re¬ 
assuring. Instead of opening and walking bold¬ 
ly in he would try the latch and rattle it, as if to 
give notice of his approach, then gently pushing 
the door open he would stand politely aside, and 
with a patronizing gesture yield to me the honor 
of entering first. In this respect I thought he 
displayed rather more gentility than one expects 
to find in a country real estate agent. 

Near the head of the stairs we opened a door 
leading into a spacious room, littered with a con¬ 
glomeration of odds and ends of old furniture 
and bric-a-brac. A large upholstered chair, with 
the seat caved in, stood in front of a rickety old 
writing desk in the center of the room, and near¬ 
by there was a big earthenware cuspidor and an 
old wall-papered woodbox which had evidently 
served the purpose of a wastebasket. The floor 
— like that of all the rooms — was bare, and 
gave no appearance of ever having been washed 
or swept. 

On the side of this room fronting the road there 
was a great high-arched stained glass window, in 
three sections, apparently designed as, a memorial. 
Emblazoned on one panel was a spirited hunting 
scene, with Diana as the central figure; on an¬ 
other was an incongruous painting of an armored 
knight in deadly combat with two satyr-archers, 

[ 25 ] 


while half a dozen frolicsome elves danced about 
the contestants. The long panel between these 
two was ornamented with a great shield, beneath 
which was the picture in colors of a sturdy, hard- 
visaged patriarch, probably some former occif- 
pant. The walls were hung with several old 
family portraits in mildewed frames which took 
on the appearance of having been bespattered 
with liquid brimstone, and some of the faded old 
veterans looked as if their nostrils sensed the 
noisome odor. If it be true, as some have con¬ 
tended, that the portraits of deceased persons are 
sometimes more or less chameleonic, and that the 
altered expression reflects the pain or pleasure of 
the departed spirits, the immortal souls of these 
subjects must have taken flight to an uncongenial 
sphere. Most of the frames were cracked; some 
hung askew, and one was vacant — suggesting 
the thought that some fond admirer had consi¬ 
derately rescued its occupant from the hetero¬ 
geneous scene. 

“This,” said the agent, with a wave of his 
hand, “is the library, or study, where Galbraith 
[that was the Poet's name] did his studying and 
writing, and where he spent most of his time. 
The things on the desk are all as he left them; 
and all his manuscripts and letters are still in the 
drawers, tied up as he arranged them himself.” 

[ 26 ] 


As I stood gazing about I felt as if we had 
invaded the sanctuary of the dead. A deathlike 
stillness pervaded the air, and instinctively we 
spoke in hushed tones. The view of the memorial 
window gave me a queer sort of feeling, as if I 
were behind the scenes in some old church where 
solemn obsequies were about to begin. The gris¬ 
ly, untidy, awe-inspiring aspect of the room and 
its contents bespoke its security as a safe retreat 
for anyone wishing to seclude himself from dis¬ 
turbing visitors. 

“No wonder the poor man committed suicide,” 
I said, —-“if he lived here all alone in this house!” 

Crossing over to the desk I glanced curiously 
over the assortment of articles. There they were, 
perhaps as he had looked upon them in his last 
despairing moments, — a small dictionary, a few 
text books, pens, ink bottle, blotters, and other 
writing materials — scraps of paper with notes, 
memoranda, and fragments of prose and verse, 
some in ink, some in pencil. A stub of a tallow 
candle stood aslant in an old brass candlestick, 
with blackened tallow caked on its sides and on 
the desk where it had dripped. 

I picked up a sheet of paper, apparently torn 
from a memorandum book, and my curiosity 
prompted me to read the lines that were scrawled 
diagonally across it. They ran as follows:— 

[ 27 ] 


A great philosopher has said that a truly wise man 
cannot be happy. I challenge that philosophy. — I am 
wretchedly unhappy. 

Life is an open book, filled with hard maxims and 
stern realities; Death is a sealed book, full of entranc¬ 
ing mysteries. I love mysteries; they lure me! 

In death there is peace and immortality. I love 
peace; I despise not immortality; therefore I fear not 
the agency that produces them. 

Poor fellow! It seemed a pity that a man of 
poetic instincts, and perhaps some genius, should 
be reduced to such hard conditions. And it must 
have been a cruel fate that stranded him in this 
out-of-the-way place, then pursued him to an un¬ 
timely grave. I had heard that poets are some¬ 
times eccentric, melancholic, half-nourished crea¬ 
tures, but I believe that a thirst for their own 
blood is uncommon among their peculiarities,— 
poor young Chatterton and a few other suchlike 
cases excepted. They commit suicide less often 
than might be expected — perhaps because it is 
a bad example, and entirely at variance with what 
we may reasonably look for in the teachings or 
practices of the Poet. In order to contemplate 
such an act a man — even a struggling Poet — 
must indeed have reached his last extremities. 

Over in one corner of the room there were 
some tiers of book-shelves with a few scattering 
tomes, some of which had once been adorned with 


[ 28 ] 


morocco bindings; but far from resembling a li¬ 
brary, their appearance was that of a mess of 
scraps and leavings of a banquet where sundry 
rats had once dined sumptuously, and having ex¬ 
hausted their last fragment of palatable susten¬ 
ance, they had deserted the place for more con¬ 
genial and better provisioned quarters. 

“Do you suppose it was starvation that drove 
that poor Poet to such a tragic measure ?” I in¬ 
quired of the agent. 

“No, I think it was illness or insanity, possibly 
both. He came here and rented this place a few 
months before he died, and although he didn’t 
leave any money, — or at least none that they 
could find, except a few small coins — he always 
seemed to have enough to buy whatever he 
wanted, which wasn’t much. So far as is known, 
his manuscripts and a few old clothes constituted 
his entire worldly possessions, and no one ever 
came to claim those.” 

It therefore seemed reasonable to conclude that 
his resources being exhausted he probably figured 
that the end being near he might as well extin¬ 
guish the feeble flame before it burned out. The 
agent did not know if any of Galbraith’s poems 
had ever appeared in print. I inquired if these 
and all the Poet’s personal effects were included 
in the purchase price the agent had named, —not 

[ 29 ] 


that I attached any particular value to them, but 
merely to make sure of the conditions. He as¬ 
sured me that everything went together, without 
reservation. 

The adjoining room was a veritable arsenal. 
The tattered walls were copiously bedecked with 
a varied assortment of old muskets, sabres, pis¬ 
tols, cross-bows, daggers, and other like relics, all 
hung in disorder — some obliquely suspended by 
wires from hooks, some resting on pegs and nails 
driven in the wall. We looked at a dozen or 
more rooms, some of which were furnished, a few 
partly furnished, while others were bare. We 
entered a few and poked about, others we viewed 
casually from the doorway. 

As we approached the top of the stairs leading 
to the attic we were startled by the flapping wings 
of an owl that had taken alarm at our approach 
and fluttered out through the window where a 
pane was missing. Perhaps his residence there 
accounted for the fact that there was nowhere 
any evidence that the room had been a refuge or 
nesting place of birds or squirrels. 

This venerable mansion, though described in 
the advertisement as being “colonial,” gave the 
impression that its construction had antedated 
architectural rules; and the singular arrangement 
of its rooms suggested that it might have been 

[ 30 ] 


first designed for a newly married couple who 
were uncertain as to the possibility or extent of 
their progeny, and as the family increased new 
rooms were built on to accommodate them. On 
one side it had largely overrun the boundaries of 
what appeared to be its original foundation, as 
marked by the cellar walls. There were three 
huge chimneys, one in the living room at the left, 
one in the large corresponding room on the right, 
and one at the rear of the little centre hall-room. 
The kitchen, which had the appearance of a con¬ 
verted dairy, was one of the largest and best 
equipped rooms in the house. Among its fur¬ 
nishings were two old-fashioned dasher churns, 
with an assortment of other butter-making para¬ 
phernalia— an enormous cook stove, and enough 
chairs for a dining room. 

Most of the rooms contained a few more or 
less crippled pieces of furniture, none of which 
matched one another, but all of which harmonized 
with the general aspect of the interior. In going- 
through the house I observed that of the seven 
or eight mirrors hung on the walls and surmount¬ 
ing the bureaus in the sleeping chambers, not one 
was whole. Some were half missing, some were 
only cracked or splintered, but all were broken. 

At length we quitted the house and made a 
superficial inspection of the barn and other out- 

[ 31 ] 


buildings, all of which were in a more or less 
dilapidated condition. The Poet had kept neither 
poultry nor animals, — not even a cat or dog. He 
had brought a parrot with him when he first took 
possession, but it had died. Then he got a pigeon, 
but it soon flew away. Everything about the 
premises, inside and out, lay in slumbering soli¬ 
tude — a sort of mystical solitude that seemed to 
bid a gloomy defiance to human intrusion. 

On the whole, with the exception of the sur¬ 
passing view, I was greatly disappointed with the 
place, though the agent repeatedly assured me 
that it had unmeasured possibilities. He would 
of course be glad to sell it to me, but he had hoped 
it would be taken by some literary person who 
would celebrate its history either in verse or in 
prose, preferably the latter. He seemed much 
disappointed that I did not enthuse over the idea 
of becoming a historical novelist; but I was not 
sure whether his disappointment was feigned or 
real. I suspected it was a mere stratagem in 
salesmanship, and that the question of making 
history was of far less moment to him than his 
commission on the sale. 

We drove back to the village, and when I took 
my leave of the agent I told him I would think 
the matter over and acquaint him with my de¬ 
cision if I decided to take the place. 

[ 32 ] 


“All things considered, it's a bargain; you'd 
better snap it up before someone else gets it,” he 
warned. 


[ 33 ] 


CHAPTER II 


On my way back to the city some unaccountable 
impulse led me into a foolhardy resolution. I 
concluded first to rent the estate, then I decided 
to buy it. If I rented it for a year or more there 
would be no incentive to repair the buildings and 
improve the grounds; if I bought it, it would be 
mine to do as I pleased with, and should it not 
prove to my liking, I could probably dispose of 
it with small loss. Accordingly, in the morning 
I notified the agent to prepare the papers, and in¬ 
side of a week I was the proprietor of The Ever¬ 
greens, of which I took immediate occupancy, for 
the spring was now well advanced. 

A few days after taking charge of my new 
possession, I received a call one evening from one 
of the natives, a farmer named Hiram Higby, 
who proved to be my nearest neighbor, residing 
near the foot of the hill, a mile or so distant. 

“I allowed ye was about settled by this time,” 
he saluted me, "and seem* as Pm to be yer 
clostest neighbor I thought Pd jest drop up and 

[ 34 ] 


look ye over.” He was a stalwart, rustic looking 
man of the soil, about fifty years old, with discern¬ 
ing eyes, and a broad, beardless, good-natured 
countenance. I invited him in and expressed my 
appreciation of his neighborly interest in me. 
After some general conversation about the 
weather, the prospective hay crop and kindred 
matters, I told him how I came to buy the place 
and settle in the neighborhood. Also that having 
spent part of my early boyhood in the country, 
for the past few years — ever since my college 
days — I had longed to get back to the freedom 
and exhilaration of out-of-door life. He in turn 
told me that four generations of his ancestors 
had lived on the place he now owned; that they 
had tilled the soil and served their country in all 
its wars. He had worked for his parents until 
he was twenty-one, when he enlisted in a local 
company of volunteers and served as sergeant 
through the Spanish American war. In memory 
of that historic event he wore a scar on his neck 
where a Spanish bullet had furrowed through, 
narrowly missing the jugular vein. Meantime 
his father had passed away, leaving the farm to 
him; but when he was mustered out of the army 
and came home to take charge of his inheritance 
he was disappointed to find the old homestead 
heavily encumbered. What with the low prices 

[ 35 ] 


for farm products, and occasional crop failures, 
with the expense of getting married and looking 
after his invalid mother, it took all his net earn¬ 
ings for several years to pay interest and taxes. 
But the past ten years or so had been more pro¬ 
pitious, enabling him gradually to reduce the en¬ 
cumbrance, so that on his fiftieth birthday he 
invited the neighbors in and celebrated the event 
by burning the mortgage, and seeing his last 
evidence of indebtedness reduced to ashes. 

Noting his predisposition to talk freely, and 
observing also his familiarity with local tradi¬ 
tions, I inquired in a casual way if he thought I 
had made a wise investment in buying “The 
Evergreens.” 

He surveyed me with a look of solemnity which 
gradually melted into a genial smile, overspread¬ 
ing his florid countenance. 

“Wall, I wouldn’t take ye fer no coward,” he 
began, “and as long as ye’ve asked me, I reckon 
thar aint no harm in tellin ye what ye’re boun’ 
t’ find out fer yerself sooner or later — thet in 
these parts this house goes by the name of the 
'House of Hard Luck.’ In the fust place, I 
reckon ye must know thet no one could raise 
enough fodder on this place to feed a goat; but 
the house got its bad name because nearly every¬ 
body that’s lived in it fer the last hundred years 

[ 36 ] 


or more has died of some awful disease, or been 
murdered, or committed suicide, or disappeared 
in some mysterious way. Ye know in Civil War 
times thar was one whole family thet disappeared 
one night and no one never did see or hear any¬ 
thing of a single one of ’em.’’ 

“No, I never heard that before. It’s one of 
the attractions the agent neglected to mention/' 

“Like enough he forgot it," he said with a 
twinkling eye. 

“Now that I recall it, he did suggest that the 
history of the place ought to be written up, and 
he thought that to write it successfully a man 
ought to live here awhile in the atmosphere in 
order to work up an inspiration for the proper 
coloring in the story." 

Higby burst into boisterous laughter. 

“I've hear'n tell thet writers git more famous 
after they're dead," he snickered, “and if thet's 
true, this ort to be jest the place fer a writer 
thet's lookin' fer quick fame. They say th's been 
more'n fifty people thet's died a horrible death in 
this house in less'n thet many years, and thet th' 
sperit of every one of 'em has come back and 
stays right here watchin' fer th' feller thet robbed 
it of its flesh and bones. —Awful thought, aint 
it!" he added with a shiver. “O' course ye know 
th' story they all tell about the Catskills. Th' 

[ 37 ] 


Indians alius said they was full of evil sperits, 
and durin’ the latter days of Indian times here 
ye couldn’t git an Indian to come within a mile 
o’ this house. Th’ was an ole squaw mother thet 
put a curse on it when she died, ’cause her two 
sons was killed here. She said she’d ha’nt this 
place with disease and death until she got every 
relation of th’ ones thet killed her sons, and she 
warned her people all t’ keep shy of it, ’cause her 
sperit might git them too, by mistake. She was 
a sister of their big Medicine Man, so she hed a 
heap of influence; and to make it worse, when 
she died all the Medicine Man’s poisons disap¬ 
peared, and they all said she took ’em along with 
her to use on this house. With his strongest 
medicines all gone he lost all his power, and it 
wasn’t no time afore he died too, so’s he could 
go ’long with her and help her use ’em. After 
that when a deer or any game th’ Indians was 
chasin’, run up this hill they alius let it go, and 
went back. If I was even a forty-second cousin 
of anyone that ever died in this house I wouldn’t 
dast come inside of it. It’s a lucky thing fer you 
that ye didn’t heir it from any old ancestor; but 
as long as ye’re a stranger they might not pester 
ye for awhile, less’n ye hev someone come here 
thet they’re layin’ fer; then if ye git in the way 
ye want t’ look out fer yerself. But did the agent 

[ 38 ] 


tell ye anything about the last man thet lived 
here?” 

“If you mean the Poet, — yes, he made away 
with himself, I believe.” 

“Yessir, and thet’s one thing I come here to 
talk to ye about. Thet poet feller was a queer 
sort; he used to walk and walk all over these 
hills, and you never could tell when or whar he 
would bob up next. Nobody ever see’d much of 
him, ’ceptin’ me. Sometimes he’d show up out 
in my hayfield, sometimes at th’ back door, ask¬ 
ing fer a drink o’water, or out in the barn watchin’ 
the milkin’. And the funny part of it was, he 
alius seemed to bob up so suddenly—when ye 
looked up he was right thar in front of ye like as 
if he’d jest dropped out of a cloud. He was a 
nature-lovin’ coot, and he used to say he come 
out here to get near to nature. Liked the fresh 
smell of it ye know. Sometimes ye’d meet him 
out on a lonely road, of a dark night, goin’ along 
straight away from his house, not. to anywhars 
in particular, but jest walkin’. He always went 
about with his head down, as if he was thinkin’ 
hard or lookin’ fer somethin’. And would you 
believe it, he uster set out in the woods fer hours 
at a time watchin’ the birds and squirrels. He 
said they was a mighty sight better company than 
most human bein’s.” 


[ 39 ] 


“I believe that’s not an uncommon trait in 
poets; they often seek quiet woodland retreats 
for recreation and meditation.” 

“Yes, I remember he uster say that. He was 
a cadaverous lookin’ chap, ’thout much to say, 
but still he seemed sociable enough too; and what 
he did say always seemed to count fer somethin’. 
He never asked anyone to his house, and I don’t 
reckon he had a caller all the while he was here. 
He didn’t appear to like women company at home, 
— got soured on ’em I reckon, from what he tole 
me once about his wife runnin’ off with some 
other feller, years ago. He said thet broke him 
all up. I tole my wife that I thought it was a 
dang shame for a woman to run off and leave a 
feller when he’s sick, and out o’ luck.” 

Here my caller sighed heavily, took a chew of 
tobacco and pondered for a brief moment. — “But 
then you can’t never tell nothin’ about some of 
these women-folks. I’ve got the best wife that 
ever lived, but I reckon I’m about the only one 
in the neighborhood that has. She’s a great 
talker though, my wife is, and thar aint much 
thet goes on in this neighborhood thet she don’t 
know about. In the last three years we’ve had 
four marriages, three divorces and two run¬ 
aways hereabouts. One was a young gal thet 
run off with a travelin’ man, and a sorry pond 

[ 40 ] 


it was thet she drove her ducks to. It wasn’t 
long afore she was back agin with a howlin’ baby 
that her mother has sot up nights with and acted 
as nurse-girl fer ever since. Some folks say she 
wasn’t married at all; but she says she was, and 
I reckon she ort to know. Thet jest shows how 
ornery some people are; they'd smut thet young 
mother’s character and try to turn her own folks 
agin her fer makin’ a mistake thet didn’t harm 
nobody but herself and her family, and wasn’t 
half as bad as a heap o’ things done by them thet 
talked about her.” 

The speaker halted again for a short season of 
contemplation and ran his fingers through his 
tangled mass of bushy hair. — "Then th’ was a 
young feller thet run off and left his wife because 
she like to hev beat the life out of him one night 
when he come home drunk. He said he wasn’t 
goin’ to live with no woman thet interfered with 
his pussonal privileges. He allowed thet gettin’ 
drunk now and agin was a pussonal privilege, 
and he didn’t think no woman hed any right to 
hit a man when he was down and beggin’ her 
fergiveness. He was a right decent sort when he 
was sober, and we all hated to lose him. I 
reckon she did too, from the way she took on 
after he left. 

"But I allow thet ye’re more interested in yer 

[ 41 ] 


own house here than ye are in the neighborhood 
scandal, and the Lord knows ye'll hev enough 
right here to keep ye busy 'thout goin’ outside t' 
hunt up other people's troubles. . . . Now 

goin' back to thet poet man, I haint never been 
satisfied what become of his dead body. There 
was two men thet come out from the city to see 
him one day, and when they found the place all 
locked up they went to the constable. I was 
with 'em all when they broke in through the win¬ 
der, and if that critter was actually dead, how 
could he hev got outside and locked the door after 
him?" 

“Perhaps someone may have taken the body, — 
possibly he may have had an arrangement with 
some medical student," I suggested. 

“But the doors was all locked, with the keys 
on the inside, and the winders all fastened down. 
Some folks think he killed hisself in thet big 
coffin box in the hall because they found some 
things in it with blood on 'em; but that aint 
nothin' 'cause he said he was havin' hemorrhages 
all the time. Once when he was down to my 
house he said he like to hev died from one he 
hed jest had; but it didn't appear to worry him; 
he wouldn't even let me hitch up the buggy and 
take him home. I remember thet day he talked 
jest like he was havin' a dream. Said he wasn't 

[ 42 ] 


really livin , now, and thet nobody know’d him; 
but when he ridded hisself of his body he was 
goin’t’ begin t’ live; then everybody would know 
‘im.— Kinder crazy-like, ye know.” 

“And how do you account for his disappear¬ 
ance, either dead or alive?” I asked. 

We were seated before the great stone fire¬ 
place in the living room, which was unlighted 
save by the wood fire, which cast fantastic figures 
on the walls and ceiling. At my last question 
Higby shrugged his shoulders, and emitting a 
loud cough, he turned his head and cast his eyes 
uneasily about the wide room, first over one shoul¬ 
der, then over the other. Edging his chair over 
nearer to mine he squinted at me through his 
half closed lids. 

“Thet’s jest it,” he said in a deep stage whisper, 
which caused me involuntarily to imitate his ac¬ 
tion and glance behind us. “I aint no hand at de¬ 
ceivin’ a man thet asks me a fair question; and do 
you know what I sometimes think? I sometimes 
think, instead of him bein’ dead he might be jest 
pretendin’ he’s dead.” 

Again my visitor moved a little closer, and 
taking a deep breath he bent forward in a crouch¬ 
ing posture and repeated his survey of the dark 
shadowy background with an ominous look that 
gave me a creepy, goose-flesh feeling, as though 

[ 43 ] 


my undershirt had turned to a coarse, prickly 
woolen substance, and had suddenly shrunk two 
or three sizes. In an unsteady voice, lowered 
almost to a whisper, he said, “He may be snoopin’ 
about this house yet. Thar’s plenty o’places in 
the garret or the cellar whar he could hide day¬ 
times. Now mind ye, I don’t want to say nothin’ 
to scare ye er make ye feel timid, but you bein’ 
a newcomer here, this is somethin’ I think ye ort 
to know; and if ye want to know the honest x! 
God’s truth, I wouldn’t be the least mite surprised 
if ye hed a roomer here thet ye don’t know nothin’ 
about.” He halted, appearing to wait for the 
awful significance of the hint to take its full 
effect; then he added, — 

“Of course ye know that mightn’t be so; then 
agin it might. He may hev locked all th’ doors 
jest fer a blind, and got out and in through th’ 
cellar. They say th’ was some mighty strange 
goin’s on up here early this spring, long after 
they thought he was dead. Some boys was coon- 
huntin’ up in these woods one night, and they 
said they see’d th’ red flames belchin’ out o’ one 
of these big chimneys, ten feet in the air. They 
was so scart they all run fer home, but th’ next 
mornin’ when some of th’ neighbors come up to 
see about it, th’ place was all locked up tight,— 
and not a sign of a livin’ soul was anywhere in 

[ 44 ] 


sight — not even a track in the snow around th’ 
house. They got inside through a winder and 
found one of the beds all mussed up, and it 
was still warm, like it hed been fresh slept in. 
They said it must a been witches er ghosts; but 
I never hee’rd of a ghost buildin’ a fire like 
that; and who ever know’d of one sleepin’ in a 
bed! I tell ye, tlTs somethin’ mighty queer 
about it all, and you can jedge fer yerself wheth¬ 
er I’m right er wrong. . . . Thet reminds 

me, — a few years ago th’ was a feller thet come 
here all th’ way from Massachusetts and tried 
farmin’ fer awhile, and he said the witches milked 
his cows every night, and in th’ mornin’ he 
couldn’t git a drop o’ milk. And he couldn’t 
keep a horseshoe on th’ barn door, ’cause th’ 
witches took ’em all down and packed ’em off 
as fast as he could nail ’em up. One night he 
hee’rd a funny squeakin’ noise outside, and when 
he looked up thar was an old witch’s face lookin’ 
in at him through th’ winder. . . . Then 

about that time some neighborhood busybody 
tole his wife th’ house was full o’ ha’nts, and them 
people like to hev broke their necks gettin’ away.” 

An impressive silence followed, during which 
we sat there in the dark, each busy with his own 
speculations. Once when a gust of wind shook 
the windows Higby cast a quick glance at me, 

[ 45 ] 


then edged his chair closer to the fire. While my 
visitor had been startlingly outspoken, I attri¬ 
buted this to his artlessness, rather than to any 
mischievous intention of frightening me. I had 
arranged with a man and his wife to come and 
take care of the place for me, but they had been 
delayed on account of packing and moving their 
furniture, and would not arrive for another day 
or two. Meantime Chops and I had been busy 
getting* things in order to the best of our ability. 
I had sent him to the village late that afternoon 
for provisions, and was alone when my caller 
arrived. 

Although not much inclined to be timorous, 
I confess that the gathering darkness and the ab¬ 
sence of any lights in the house gave me occasion 
to hope that Chops would not lose his way in the 
dark, or be otherwise delayed in returning and 
lighting the lamps. I had ordered the house 
wired for electricity, and I inwardly cursed the 
contractor for his delay in beginning the job. I 
had a sort of feeling just then that I should like 
to have a switch within easy reach, and so con¬ 
nected that in turning it on I could flood the whole 
house with light, from cellar to attic. Indeed, 
while I gave but little credence to the man’s 
absurd idea, there was a possibility that the Poet 
may have purposely created the impression that 

[ 46 ] 


he was dead in order to see if his manuscripts 
would be taken up and exploited as the work of 
a newly discovered genius who had ended his life 
before the world recognized his talent. At any 
rate, I made up my mind then and there to alter 
my plans for lighting, and to have every room in 
the house wired so that in case of emergency 
they could be lighted with one switch. Further¬ 
more, in future Chops would do his marketing in 
the morning, and with strict orders to return 
before dark. 

At length my caller broke the silence. I was 
at that instant lost in meditation over the incident 
of the slamming door when I first entered the 
house with the agent, and having for the moment 
forgotten that Higby existed, the sound of his 
voice as it ruptured the dead stillness gave me a 
start. 

“I don’t believe — much — in ghosts,” he said 
in a loud defiant voice, as if to encourage himself, 
as a boy will whistle in the dark; “and I’d as lief 
sleep in a graveyard as in a baby’s nursery; but 
I couldn’t sleep comfortable in a house with a 
crazy man loose in it at night; and I thought I 
ought t’ tell ye what I think, so’s ye can be on 
the lookout.” 

As he spoke we heard a light footstep on the 
stone walk in the rear, and presently the back 

[ 47 ] 


door was opened and closed. Higby sprang to 
his feet and stared at me in wide-eyed amazement, 
his mouth yawning wide. — 

“My God! Thar he is now! Didn’t ye hear 
that?” I got up, quaking, and went to the door 
leading into the rear hallway.— “Is that you, 
Chops?” I called. His answering voice assured 
me that he had returned. 

When Higby departed I accompanied him to 
the front door. For a brief space he stood on the 
step looking about in the dark, then in a voice 
loud enough to be heard throughout the grounds, 
he remarked, — 

“I reckon you keep a gun handy about ye.” 

When he had gone I called Chops into the liv¬ 
ing room and asked him point blank, — “Chops, 
do you believe in ghosts ?” He stared at me per¬ 
plexedly. 

“Are there any ghosts in this house?” he asked. 
My heart almost sank within me. 

“No, certainly not! And anyone who tells 
you there are, lies mischievously, maliciously!” 

I felt sure that if that Arab ever heard Higby’s 
story, no earthly persuasive power could induce 
him to stay in that house another night; and I 
felt equally sure that if he left me, there was no 
earthly persuasive power that could induce me to 
remain there over night, alone. I was positively 

[ 48 ] 


sincere in denying to him that there were any 
ghosts in the house, but I was not so certain that 
it was not possible to conjure up ghosts in the 
imagination that would seem just as real and 
awe-inspiring as if they were actually stalking 
about the premises. Had I taken possession of 
the house without hearing anything about its his¬ 
tory I have no doubt but that I could have gone 
through every one of its rooms at any hour of the 
night without much trepidation or thought of 
danger, but my lately acquired information had 
so stimulated my imaginary powers that for the 
moment I had no ambition to institute any search 
in order to demonstrate the truth of my statement 
to Chops; he would simply have to take my word 
for it. 

I tried to read, I tried to think of other mat¬ 
ters, I tried to imagine myself back in my New 
York apartment; but all in vain. I found my¬ 
self mentally reviewing the scenes enacted there 
in former years, wondering what became of the 
Poet, and trying to figure out how I could have 
been so foolish as to fling defiance into the teeth 
of the Fates and settle down in that supposedly 
ghoul-ridden house of mystery and ill luck, when 
1 could just as easily have found a place with 
more comforts and fewer traditions. At first the 
richness of its so-called traditions, as related by 

[ 49 ] 


the agent, rather appealed to me, but more ma¬ 
ture deliberation, supplemented by Higby’s story, 
made me feel that I had got rather more in that 
line than I bargained for. Before buying the 
place I had argued myself into thinking I could 
renovate it and make it into a modern up-to-date 
country seat, with a barn full of horses, cows, 
chickens, pigs, cats and dogs, and I looked for¬ 
ward to the pleasure of having my friends out 
from the city to enjoy the country over the week¬ 
ends. I had even planned how I would gather 
them before the great fireplace at night, and in 
the mellow glow of the firelight thrill them with 
stories of ghostly visions drawn from my own 
ample storehouse. But my neighbor Higby had 
rather anticipated me in this pleasure. In fact I 
was now afraid to invite anyone out, lest they 
hear Higby’s story and chide me for luring them 
into such a place. While most people, especial¬ 
ly children, are fond of ghost stories and tales of 
lively adventure, their delight would be turned to 
horror on finding themselves in the darkness un¬ 
der the same roof — nay in the same room — 
where these weird phantoms held sway and the 
scenes of carnage had been enacted. It is all very 
well to listen to hair-raising stories of spooky hap¬ 
penings in some old deserted castle away off in 
some remote corner of the earth, but picture your- 

[ 50 ] 


self turning out the light and going to bed in 
that place! 

That night after getting inside my bedroom I 
locked the door. I tried to persuade myself that 
there was no foundation to Higby’s theory, but 
I locked the door just the same — a thing I had 
not even thought of before. Moreover, I felici¬ 
tated myself on having had the foresight to as¬ 
sign Chops to the bedroom next to mine. Before 
going to bed I called Chops, and under the pre¬ 
text of desiring a more systematic arrangement 
of my clothes, I had him rummage through my 
closet, taking some out, and putting others in, 
while I cast a searching glance under the bed, 
rather expecting to find a pair of strange boots. 

I spent a restless night, and was glad to see the 
morning sun. It seemed odd that the daylight 
should be so welcome to one having a sovereign 
contempt for ghosts and other imaginary demons 
of darkness. 

In the early forenoon the man Tompkins and 
his wife whom I had engaged, arrived and were 
installed in their respective positions as gardener 
and cook. There were now four of us on the 
premises. 


[ 51 ] 


CHAPTER III 


With the aid of Mrs. Tompkins I made a list 
of the most needful household articles, such as 
curtains, draperies, rugs, bedding, kitchen uten¬ 
sils, et cetera , and started early next morning for 
the city on a shopping tour. Arriving at the vil¬ 
lage half an hour before train time I went over 
to the post office to see if there was any mail for 
me. The young lady at the window handed me 
several letters, among which, to my amazement, 
was one addressed to “Mr. John Galbraith, The 
Evergreens,” the superscription being in a neat, 
legible feminine handwriting. For some mo¬ 
ments I pondered whether or not I ought to open 
it. I read and re-read the name, turned it over 
and over, endeavoring to decide what to do with 
it. It gave me a strange feeling, fumbling this 
missive from some unknown person to a dead 
man. On the one hand it seemed that I had no 
right to open it, while on the other hand, I had 
succeeded him to the extent of occupying his last 
known abiding place, and having bought his man¬ 
uscripts I might in a measure be regarded as his 

[ 52 ] 


literary executor, — or at least the custodian of 
his literary remains. Since the letter might re¬ 
fer to his manuscripts, or furnish some clue that 
would lead to the discovery of his relatives, I 
thought it ought to be opened—by someone. 

In my dilemma I appealed to the postmistress. 

“This man Galbraith is dead, —or at least he 
is supposed to be, — and I take it that whoever 
wrote this letter is not aware of that fact. Per¬ 
haps we ought to open it and notify the sender. ,, 

“Surer she said; “that’s all right.” So I 
opened the letter, and together we read the fol¬ 
lowing:— 

Dear Jerry — 

Since I was out to see you things have been going 
steadily from bad to worse, and you have simply got 
to let me come back to you. I am out of employment, 
and I’d rather share your loneliness in that Lordfor- 
saken wilderness than go on like this. I need you. 
and you certainly need me. In my last letter I told 
you what I would do if you don’t let me come to you, 
and if you don’t answer me at once I swear before God 
I’ll do it ! Don’t think I’m fooling, for I am not. I 
warn you I am becoming desperate. Minnie 

P. S. I am still at No. 179-St. 

“I’ll bet that woman is a trouble-breeder!” ob¬ 
served the postmistress; “Either she’s got some¬ 
thing on him, or else she’s going to kill herself. 
And did you notice, she addressed him 'Dear 


[ 53 ] 



Jerry’ on the inside, and ‘John’ on the outside? 
That looks suspicious to me.” 

“That is odd,” I agreed, “but possibly ‘J err y’ 
may be a middle name; or he may have taken 
'John’ merely as a pen name because ( ]tvvy’ 
seemed unpoetic. At any rate I’ll call on the lady 
while in town today, and break the news to her.” 

And so I decided to see “Minnie” and learn 
what I could about the unfortunate Poet. In 
view of what Higby had told me of Galbraith’s 
story about his wife having deserted him for an¬ 
other man, I assumed that this woman was his 
wife, and perhaps having been abandoned by the 
other man she was now trying to reinstate her¬ 
self. Had it not been that the Poet was in the 
grip of a fatal malady this letter might have 
aroused a suspicion that he had retreated to this 
lonely, mountainous region to escape being tor¬ 
mented by her. But her direful threat to do 
something or other in case of his noncompliance 
was of course vague to anyone but Galbraith him¬ 
self. Had it been addressed to some malefactor 
one would naturally suppose it to be a threat of 
exposure; but in this case it doubtless meant that 
she would bring herself to some tragic end, and 
possibly seek to blight his literary career by leav¬ 
ing a letter or something accusing him of her 
downfall and self-destruction. 


On reaching the city I went directly to the up¬ 
town address given in the letter. It proved to 
be a cheap looking establishment with a sign hung 
in the window announcing “Board and Rooms. ,, 
A frowsy looking woman answered the bell. 

“Have you a roomer here by the name of 
Minnie?” 

“If you mean Minnie Sherwin, you’ll find her 
four flights up in the back hall room.” She ac¬ 
companied the remark with a fling of her hand 
toward a narrow dark stairway, and paying no 
further heed to me she wheeled about and disap¬ 
peared. I groped my way up the four flights of 
stairs and rapped on what seemed to be the door, 
at the end of a narrow hall, so dark that I could 
scarcely distinguish the door from the wall. A 
woman’s voice responded, “Come!” After fum¬ 
bling about I finally located the door knob, and 
opening the door I stood face to face with the 
most astounding apparition I had ever beheld in 
woman’s habiliment, — a charming young woman 
of perhaps twenty-five, bewitchingly garbed in a 
pair of blue bedroom slippers and a lace-frilled 
nightgown. A wealth of fluffy nut brown hair 
hung over her shoulders, and in one hand she 
held a hairbrush, with which she had evidently 
been making her toilette. As we stood looking 
aghast at each other it would have been hard to 

[ 55 ] 


tell which of us was the more embarrassed. Af¬ 
ter staring at me for a moment, her pretty mouth 
agape, she gave a sudden gasp, sprang onto the 
bed and pulled the covers over her. She hastened 
to explain that she thought it was a Mrs. Cum¬ 
mings who roomed on the same floor, and that 
had she known it was a man she would have 
asked me to wait till she got dressed. I made 
some sort of apology, the best I could think of un¬ 
der the circumstances, and explained that owing 
to the darkness I had doubtless stumbled into the 
wrong room. 

“I am looking for a woman named Minnie,” 
I said (having forgotten in the excitement of the 
moment that the attendant downstairs had given 
the woman's last name), “and perhaps you will 
be good enough to direct me to her room.” 

“Why, I— my name is Minnie, but I don't 
believe I know you.” My face must have be¬ 
trayed some perplexity, for she repeated, “My 
name is Minnie Sherwin.” 

“Sherwin — yes, that's the name. And you 
are related to John Galbraith, the poet?” 

“Do you come from him?" she parried. 

“No, but what I have to say concerns him. I 
will wait downstairs until you have attired your¬ 
self, when I will make known the object of my 
visit.” 


[ 56 ] 


By this time she had partially regained her 
composure, and tucking the bedclothes more close¬ 
ly about her neck, she laughingly remarked, — 

“How ridiculous I must have appeared to you! 
There is no reception room downstairs, and now 
that you are here you may as well remain, if you 
don't mind talking to me in this absurd condition. 
Please be seated." 

“My name is Garret Fletcher," I began, “and 
I bring you what I fear will be very sad news." 
Her face, which had been slightly flushed with 
confusion, became almost ashen, and her lips 
quivered as she fixed her wide-staring blue eyes 
on me. 

I was puzzled to know how to begin. My 
original intention, before meeting her, had been 
merely to tell her that John Galbraith was dead, 
and then whatever relationship she might bear to 
him would determine the measure of her grief. 
But instead of encountering a world-hardened 
demi-monde creature such as I had pictured 
“Minnie" to be, I found a graceful, refined-fea¬ 
tured young woman to whom this squalid environ¬ 
ment seemed altogether ill-fitting. The room, 
though meagerly furnished, was tidy, and her 
garments, what she had on, were evidently relics 
of a former prosperity. On the dresser near 
the foot of the bed was an array of silver 

[ 57 ] 


toilet articles neatly arranged on a clean white 
scarf, and the whole situation suggested that 
affluence had given place to a respectable poverty. 

After some further words I drew out the let¬ 
ter and handed it to her. 

*‘You wrote this letter ?” I asked. She glanced 
at it, then stared at me with frank curiosity. 

“What does it mean?” she finally asked. “By 
what mischance did it fall into your hands?” 
With a quick intake of breath she gasped, — “Are 
you an officer or detective?” 

“My dear Madam, please don’t misjudge me; 
I am neither. I am the present owner of The 
Evergreens, and this letter came there with my 
mail. I opened it in the presence of the post¬ 
mistress, because— because— Well I may as well 
tell you frankly that Mr. Galbraith has disap¬ 
peared, and we thought this letter might lead to 
some clue in discovering his relatives.” At this 
her fears seemed somewhat to subside, and she 
said quite calmly, — 

“I take you to be a gentleman of your word, — 
would you mind telling me what prompts your 
interest in Mr. Galbraith and his relatives?” 

“Nothing whatever, I assure you, except that 
he dissappeared very mysteriously, and it is sup¬ 
posed that he— that is to say, we have reason 
to suspect that he may have committed suicide.” 

[ 58 ] 


To my utter astonishment, instead of being 
shocked at this piece of news she merely smiled 
and said she hoped my suspicions were ground¬ 
less ; but catching herself suddenly she remarked 
that for some time his strange actions and ill 
health had been the cause of much anxiety among 
his friends. 

“I assume that he is — or that is, he was your 
husband?” I ventured to ask. 

Her brows arched slightly. 

“You base your assumption upon my letter?” 
she queried evasively. Noting which I did not 
press my inquiry. 

Without further waste of words I told her 
about the chest we had found in the front hall, 
the blood-stained articles it contained, the memo¬ 
randa found on the writing desk, and the reports 
that were current in the neighborhood, — in all 
of which she manifested a merely passive interest. 

“He was an odd sort of genius,” she sighed. 

When I described the sensations I experienced 
on first entering the house she shuddered and said 
she never understood how Mr. Galbraith could 
have lived there. 

Having pretty well exhausted the subject mat¬ 
ter without deeply stirring her emotions, — also 
without getting any information, — it seemed that 
my call was destined to prove fruitless. Here 

[ 59 ] 


was a woman who aroused both my curiosity and 
my sympathy—the former because she was so 
bewitchingly attractive, and the latter because she 
had obviously become a victim of shifting for¬ 
tunes, and was in pecuniary distress. But she 
very adoritly refused to satisfy my curiosity, 
and she showed no disposition to entreat my sym¬ 
pathy or my assistance. Her conversation and 
her manners — symbols of good breeding which 
are not easily counterfeited—marked her as a 
person of education and refinement; and after 
recovering from her first shock at meeting me in 
her deshabille she was as much at ease as I was. 
What could be the history of this fascinating crea¬ 
ture whom Dame Fortune had so ruthlessly for¬ 
saken ? For whatever may be the whims of that 
capricious lady who presides over the fortunes of 
mortal beings, she is rarely jealous or grudging 
in her dealings with beautiful women. I knew 
that persons of Minnie Sherwin’s temperament 
and situation are oftentimes supersensitive, but 
I ventured a chance shot. — 

“If you will pardon my reference to your un¬ 
fortunate circumstances, as disclosed in your let¬ 
ter and by your present surroundings, I assume 
that you are in need of financial aid; and al¬ 
though I bought Mr. Galbraith’s manuscripts 
with the house, I feel that any revenue that may 

[ 60 ] 


be derived from their sale or publication belongs 
to you more rightfully than to me.” 

She propped herself up on one elbow and rest¬ 
ing her dimpled chin in the palm of a neatly 
manicured hand, she fixed her eyes on me in a 
steady, searching gaze from a wistful coun¬ 
tenance. The lace-edged sleeve of her nightdress 
fell away from a white, well rounded forearm 
that might well have excited the envy of a lady 
of leisure. 

“You are very kind, Mr. Fletcher,” she said 
after surveying me reflectively, “and although 
disinterested kindness is something I have rarely 
experienced at the hands of strangers, I do not 
doubt that your generosity is well intentioned. 
But I’m afraid the manuscripts of an unknown 
writer would be of little value to a person in im¬ 
mediate need of funds.” 

“Doubtless you are right. I had not considered 
the urgency of your needs. I recall that in your 
letter you said you were out of work; that owing 
to your desperate straits you would even be 
willing to come out to that Lordforsaken place 
where I now reside. I don’t know 1 what kind of 
work you are accustomed to, but tell me, would it 
offend you if I were to offer you a position as 
housekeeper at The Evergreens at a good 
salary?” 


[ 61 ] 


She sat bolt upright in bed and turned on me 
with what I took to be a half-resentful stare, 
which caused me instantly to regret my hasty, 
ill-timed proposal. Just then it flashed across 
me that she might be some unsophisticated stage 
beauty who was in a temporary run of bad luck, 
and I had made a bungling faux pas . She did 
not strike me as being the sort of woman whom 
one could help, except by affording her an op¬ 
portunity to help herself. 

"Please don’t be offended,” I pleaded. "I only 
wanted to prove to you that your confidence in 
me was not misplaced; but I fear I have taken a 
very blunt and clumsy way of offering to demon¬ 
strate my good intentions.” 

Her features relaxed, and she broke into a low, 
musical laugh at my mollifying remark. 

"I am not offended at all; I am overcome. 
It would be one of the happiest moments of my 
life if I could believe that you are really in earn¬ 
est, and that I am not indulging my fancies in 
some elusive dream, as I have done so many 
times before.” 

"I was never in more deadly earnest,” I 
promptly assured her, "and you may consider 
yourself engaged from this moment. I have a 
cook, a gardener and an Egyptian valet, so you 
will find the house more extensively tenanted than 

[ 62 ] 


when you were there. You may come with me 
today, or I will call for you any time you wish.” 

“Thank you so much; I should like nothing 
better than to leave this place at once — that is, 
if I can arrange—” She paused, and her brows 
contracted as if some difficulty had obtruded it¬ 
self upon her mental vision. 

“You mean if you can arrange to appease your 
landlady?” 

She looked up quickly, her lips parting in a 
pleasant smile, disclosing a row of beautiful white 
teeth. 

“What a clever mind-reader you are, Mr. Flet¬ 
cher !” For a short moment she pondered. — 
“Yes, I have it now — I will leave my trunk and 
a part of my clothing here until I can earn enough 
money to redeem them.” 

“You may pack everything and take your 
trunk along. I will see the landlady on my way 
out, and you need concern yourself no further 
about her.” 

“No, no! I can’t let you do that,” she pro¬ 
tested ; but I interrupted her. — 

“The Transfer Company will call for your 
trunk inside of three hours; and I will call for 
you at four o’clock this afternoon. We will 
leave from the 125th Street station.” 

On my way downstairs many questions oc- 

[ 63 ] 


curred to me on which we had neglected to come 
to an understanding. In the first place, —though 
perhaps of least importance,—neither of us 
knew whether the other was married or single, 
and she had not told me whether she was the wife, 
sister or daughter of the Poet; or indeed whether 
she was related to him at all; though I supposed 
her to be some near relation. I was agreeably 
impressed by her willingness to take the position 
without quibbling and questioning about how 
much work there was, how many in family, what 
wages I paid, and the usual catechismal routine 
on which I had often heard my mother comment 
despairingly. Obviously this woman needed em¬ 
ployment, and she was intelligent enough to know 
that she would be adequately paid for her ser¬ 
vices. On my part, I needed someone to look 
after my new household, and furthermore I had 
a tremendous curiosity to know something more 
of Minnie Sherwin’s history. 

As I descended the last flight of stairs I saw 
the woman who had let me in; she now had a 
towel wrapped about her head and was sweeping 
out the hallway. 

“Did you find Miss Sherwin?” she asked; and 
I made a mental note that she referred to the 
young woman as “Miss” 

“Yes, thank you; and as Miss Sherwin is leav- 

[ 64 ] 


ing today, I have come to settle her bill.” The 
woman looked me over critically, almost contemp¬ 
tuously, from head to foot, then with a swish of 
her skirts she turned and disappeared through an 
inner doorway. There was some bickering be¬ 
tween the women inside, but their voices were 
muffled and I could not make out what it was all 
about. Presently the woman returned and with 
an air of imperious authority she informed me 
that Miss Sherwin could not give up her room 
until her week was up. 

“Miss Sherwin is leaving today,” I said with 
some emphasis; “and I will settle for what she 
owes you.” The woman glared at me for an 
instant, then with an exclamatory “Oh!” she 
flounced back through the door, with a defiant 
glance over her shoulder as she went. Again 
there was a council of muffled voices, from which 
I made out that it “must be some rich relation,” 
while another high-pitched feminine voice pro¬ 
tested that more likely it was “some rich angel !” 

In a few moments the landlady herself ap¬ 
peared, her curiosity having overpowered her se- 
clusive propensities. She was a typical landlady, 
— short, plump, red haired, obsequious and in¬ 
quisitive. There was no mistaking her identity. 
She wore the distinctive marks of her exalted 
office in her face, her hair, her manner, her dress; 

[ 65 ] 


in short, no one on earth but a landlady could 
have looked precisely as she did. After greeting 
me pleasantly enough she desired first of all to 
know if I were a relation of Miss Sherwin’s. I 
said I had merely come to pay her bill, whatever 
she owed. After some further preliminaries I 
found that she owed for six weeks’ board, and al¬ 
though the landlady avowed her profound regret 
at losing so good a boarder, and even affected an 
air of injury because I was robbing her of a 
profitable customer, I have no doubt she had been 
on the point of turning the poor girl into the 
street. Such are the paradoxical vagaries of 
human nature. An hour ago she would proba¬ 
bly have been glad to discount the bill fifty per¬ 
cent. — which, in view of the exorbitant price 
charged, she could easily have done without loss 
to herself — and get rid of her delinquent tenant; 
yet now when she saw that she was to be paid in 
full she was so loath to part with her erstwhile 
undesirable boarder that she exacted — perhaps 
as a salve for her wounded feelings —the price of 
three full days’ board beyond what was due her. 
“You see I may not be able to rent her room for 
a week,” she explained. 

As her glittering eyes beheld me counting out 
the money she was moved by a deep sense of 
compassion to remark, — 

[ 66 ] 


“I’m mighty glad, though, for her sake, poor 
child—she’s been up against it pretty hard.” 

“And,” I returned, “I’m sure she will be equally 
glad for your sake.” 

I left the house with a sort of triumphant feel¬ 
ing that one oftentimes experiences as a result 
of having done an act of benevolence in relieving 
the distress of a worthy individual, and on the 
whole I congratulated myself on having per¬ 
formed a highly satisfactory forenoon’s work; for 
I felt sure that Minnie Sherwin would prove to 
be a useful as well as romantic addition to the 
household at The Evergreens; and that through 
her the mystery of the Poet would eventually be 
cleared up. And I speculated at some length on 
her capabilities and the aptness with which she 
would fit into the new position. It would be so 
vastly more interesting to have for a housekeeper 
a woman of intelligence and refinement, especially 
one with an untold history— a woman whom one 
could contemplate with admiration, and talk to 
with a sense of gratification. 

I went down town and attended to my shop¬ 
ping, and at the appointed time I returned to the 
boarding house. I confess that I ascended the 
front steps with a slight flutter of expectancy, 
wondering at the same time how Minnie Sherwin 
would look in street attire. When the woman came 

[ 67 ] 


to the door she drew it only half open and peered 
out at me with a look of unfeigned surprise. 
Instead of inviting me in, as she had in the morn¬ 
ing, she stood in the narrow opening in an atti¬ 
tude of calm defiance. — 

“I have come for Miss Sherwin.” 

“Miss Sherwin has gone.” 

“Gone? Where did she go?” 

“I don’t know.” 

By persistent questioning, tempered with a lit¬ 
tle cajolery, I learned, bit by bit, that an hour or 
so after I left the house a man came up in a cab, 
asked for Miss Sherwin, and that a few minutes 
later she and her baggage were bustled into the 
cab, and they drove away without leaving any 
word as to their purpose or destination. 

While at first the woman dealt out this infor¬ 
mation very grudgingly, when she saw the dis¬ 
turbing effect it had on me her reluctant tongue 
loosened and she talked with great freedom and 
evident gusto. Among other things she assured 
me that although they conducted a thoroughly 
respectable house, it was not always possible to 
vouch for the outside conduct of their boarders; 
and as for herself, she had all along had her 
private suspicions of “some people” who came 
there pretending to be poor, when their clothes 
and general appearance plainly belied their pre- 

[ 68 ] 


tendons. When I was about to go she viewed 
me with an air of condescension, and as a parting 
salute she sneered, — 

‘Tm sorry for you — I guess you must be a 
stranger in New York.” 


[ 69 ] 


CHAPTER IV 


Instead of returning to the country, I started 
back downtown. A great variety of theories fol¬ 
lowed one another through my addled brain, but 
none of them afforded me any comfort of mind 
or helped toward a solution of the mystifying 
problem. The last stinging remark of that spite¬ 
ful woman still rankled in my ears. A stranger 
in New York! It was certainly well calculated 
as a sharp, double-edged thrust, implying not only 
that I was an unsophisticated goup, but that Miss 
Sherwin was an artful confidence woman. Hav¬ 
ing seen a good deal of the world, I thought I 
knew something of its snares; and no matter how 
questionable Minnie Sherwin’s actions might ap¬ 
pear, I felt sure she had not duped me. I liked 
her looks, I liked her manner, I liked everything 
about her, except her reticence on the subject of 
her relationship to the Poet, and for that she 
was not to be blamed, because it was purely her 
own affair. 

All at once it occurred to me that the woman at 


the door might have lied, and that Miss Sherwin 
might still be waiting for me. I stopped the taxi 
at the first drug store, went in and looked up the 
nearest Detective Agency in the telephone direc¬ 
tory. It was only a few blocks away, and I 
urged the driver to hurry along. 

The pudgy-faced man in charge listened to my 
story with a disconcerting smile. When I had 
finished he asked me if I were acquainted with 
New York. 

This nettled me. 

“I know every cobblestone in this city, from 
the Bowery to the Bronx,” I asserted with some 
warmth; “and no one ever put over a Ton’ game 
on me yet.” 

He lighted a long, black stogy and flicked the 
match on the floor. After a puff or two he 
leaned back, gazing at the ceiling. — 

“Well, there’s always a first time,” he said, 
lowering his eyes with a provoking grin. 

“At any rate, I’ll take a chance on having you 
send a man up there to find out if Miss Sherwin 
is really gone.” 

Remembering that she mentioned a Mrs. Cum¬ 
mings who roomed on the top floor, I told him 
to send a man to see her under some pretext, and 
to find out what he could about the Sherwin 
woman. It all seemed simple enough to me, but 

[ 711 


not as simple as I apparently seemed to him. 
However, he finally agreed to do what he could, 
and report to me at my apartment early in the 
morning. By this time I could almost imagine 
that I saw Minnie sitting up there in her room 
waiting for me, and wondering if I had proved 
false. 

I went on down to the club* where I found Phil 
Barton, an old college-mate, to whom I confided 
the story of my adventure. He laughed and 
laughed—until I almost lost patience with him. 
Between fitful outbursts of laughter he managed 
to say, “Garry, I never thought you’d fall for a 
skirt — or rather a nightgown — as easily as 
that! And think of her working you — you, of 
all people on earth! — It’s a scream! But don’t 
tell anyone else about how honest and well-edu¬ 
cated she is — if it gets out every hard-up dame 
in town will be on your trail.” 

“Phil, you don’t understand it at all. She 
never asked me for a cent.” 

“No, the educated ones never do; but they pro¬ 
vide you with the most convenient excuse for 
volunteering your services as ministering ‘angel.’ 
Where do you suppose she got that costly night¬ 
gown? With money she honestly earned?” 

“I don’t care a damn where she got it. I gave 
the money to the landlady of my own accord, — 

[ 72 ] 


merely advanced it as a loan against the woman's 
wages — so she could get her trunk away.” 

“Yes, ha, ha! And she didn't delay long in 
getting it away, did she—and in taking herself 
along with it. By this time she's probably run¬ 
ning up another board bill somewhere and won¬ 
dering who'll be the next to come along and pay 
it. But she interested you, by George!—that's 
something. She must have been a clever wench; 
no woman ever did as much before.” 

I protested that my interest in the woman her¬ 
self was wholly subservient to my curiosity to 
know her history and to learn what became of 
the Poet. But Phil insisted that New York was 
full of women with “histories” — women eager to 
tell their life story to anyone for a dinner and a 
bottle of wine. And he tauntingly inquired how 
I had suddenly developed so lively an interest in 
feminine biography and obscure poets. 

Phil was a good, well-meaning fellow, and I 
tried hard to take his bantering good-naturedly. 
We had often “seen New York” together; but 
early in the game he fell in love with a Western 
girl who was attending a private school in the 
city, and after that he wasn't of much use as 
company for me. He had married her shortly 
after her graduation, and was now engaged in 
the edifying pursuit of bringing up a family to 

[ 73 ] 


inherit the ample fortune his father had left 
him. 

“I thought you were crazy when you bought 
that old house,” he said, “but now I know it. 
Better let the mysterious women alone; they’re a 
dangerous lot.” 

“Phil, there’s no use in a student of human 
nature discussing femininity with a cynical old 
married man like yourself, who neither knows nor 
cares anything about women in general, so let’s 
dismiss the matter and have a game of billiards, 
after which we’ll dine and go to the theatre, — I 
believe you said this is your weekly night out.” 

“Agreed!” said he, and raising his glass, 
“Here’s to the women —all the women—God 
bless them!” 

After the theatre Phil went home, and I spent 
the night at my apartment. In the morning the 
Detective Agency called on the telephone. The 
man reported that he saw Mrs. Cummings, a 
dressmaker, who was out when Minnie Sherwin 
left, early in the afternoon. The landlady had 
told her that a strange man called to see Minnie, 
and that soon afterward she heard a great rum¬ 
pus upstairs. She was on her way up to order 
them out of the house when she met them coming 
down. The cabman had helped the man get the 
trunk down, and they had departed in great haste. 

[ 74 ] 


This information cost me eight dollars, and it 
was worth more than that to know that my 
woman of mystery had left under protest; at least 
I supposed she had, from the fact that they had 
quarreled. It supported my confidence in her in¬ 
tegrity, for I had no doubt that the disagreement 
resulted from her insistence on fulfilling her com¬ 
pact with me. Thus it happened that circum¬ 
stances which ordinarily would have increased 
my distrust of a person in whom my confidence 
was wanting served equally to strengthen my 
faith in one of whom I entertained a good opinion. 

After finishing my shopping I took the after¬ 
noon train for the country, hoping to find a mes¬ 
sage at The Evergreens from the missing lady, 
explaining her strange disappearance. Arriving 
at the village I called at the post office and the 
telegraph office, and finding no message I hired 
a conveyance and drove out to the house. There 
was no message there; but I found other problems 
awaiting me — quite enough to divert my mind 
for the moment. 

Out in front of the gate there was a pile of 
furniture, which proved to be the household goods 
of my new gardener and his wife, both of whom 
were standing guard over their possessions. The 
day before I left they had moved in; the day I 
returned they had moved out, and when I arrived 

[ 75 ] 


they were waiting for a wagon and team to come 
and haul their belongings away. I stormed and 
protested, but all to no avail; they had made up 
their minds to go. I discovered that when once 
the seed of discontent germinates in the minds 
of domestics and they decide to quite their em¬ 
ployers, no amount of persuasion or blandish¬ 
ment can induce them to alter their purpose. 
Their “notice,” if they give any, is irrevocable. 

I went inside and questioned Chops, who was 
still sticking bravely to his post. He said that 
about sundown the day before, the woman dis¬ 
covered something that threw her into a panic of 
fear. She ran frantically for her husband, who 
was out in the yard, and both of them deserted 
the house without even getting their supper, and 
spent the night in the barn on the hay. In the 
morning they ventured back to the house and 
hastily removed their furniture. Chops had over¬ 
heard them babbling about spooks and mummies. 

“The Indian scalps!” I exclaimed. 

“And something in the library,” he said. “She 
came running out of there like the place was 
afire.” Chops said he heard them say something 
about “Bloody Hands,” which he could not com¬ 
prehend. Nor could I understand what it meant 
before discovering what occasioned the woman’s 
alarm. 


[ 76 ] 


I ran upstairs to see if anything had gone awry 
in the Poet’s study, where the woman had taken 
fright. One of the desk drawers was drawn out 
and near it on the floor were some sheets of loose 
paper, — notes and fragments of manuscripts. 
Seemingly she had been prying into matters not 
directly concerned with her work; but what had 
she discovered? On the desk there was a sheet 
of paper containing some lines of verse — written 
in red ink! It had been placed there since I went 
away. I caught it up and read — 

O’er all there hangs a ghostly shadow here; 

A voice, low and mystical, quakes on the air, 

And whispers softly in the listening ear, — 
“Beware! This house is haunted!” 

The death-watch ticks within the panelled walls, 
Then echoes, strange and ill-omened, awake 

As if some troubled answering spirit calls, — 
“Fly from this place — it’s haunted!” 

Some warning spirit in this blood-stained room 
Its mortal frame has violently quitted! 

It wails and groans amid the awful gloom, — 
“This cursed house is haunted!” 

The Bloody Hand, bedripped with ancient gore, 
With jealous rage regards each entrant here, 

[ 77 ] 


And stamps this gruesome sign on every 
door, — 

“This house is damned — it’s haunted!” 

Some of these lines at least were manifestly a 
sort of travesty on a famous poem by a well known 
English bard, and the woman, unhappily, had 
supposed that the stricture applied to the partic¬ 
ular house she was occupying. She had there¬ 
fore spontaneously obeyed the injunction em¬ 
bodied in the last line of the second stanza. I 
took the paper out to where they were still wait¬ 
ing, and holding it up I asked if that was the 
cause of her alarm. 

She cringed at the sight of it. 

“Take it away! Take it away!” she cried. 

I tried to convince her that it was merely a 
paraphrase of an old poem written by a foreigner 
who had never so much as heard of this house; but 
she had evidently been impressed by the red ink 
and the “Bloody Hand, bedripped with ancient 
gore.” 

“But I know that Bloody Hand killed someone 
right there in that old house!” she declared with 
a flourish of her arm toward the fearsome struc¬ 
ture; “and that same bloody hand wrote that 
terrible warning message in the victim’s own 
blood, and laid it right on top of the papers in 

[ 78 ] 


the drawer, so other people might read it and 
beware!” 

“And you dug it out and read it before anyone 
else had a chance to see it,” I added. 

“It’s a lucky thing I did, or we might all have 
been dead by now. And those awful skelps! 
Don't you know that the spirit of every one of 
them still hovers about here ? After reading that 
thing I remembered distinctly that I heard all 
sorts of strange noises the night before — and 
that's why my lamp went out twice, without a 
speck of wind — but I never suspected then that 
you'd bring me to a place like this, and I never 
dreamed what a dangerous den I'd got into until 
I found that paper next day. And to think that 
I slept in that pest-house over night! It's a 
regular devil's nest! I wonder that I'm alive to 
tell the story. Ugh! it's a terrible place! I might 
have known it was haunted! Don't let's talk 
about it.” 

And indeed it seemed best not to talk more 
about it, for I feared that Chops might overhear 
the conversation and take fright. 

I was obliged to confess, to myself at least, that 
there was nothing conducive to cheerfulness in 
the “message,” as she called it, and although I 
had belittled its portentousness to her, I was not 
at all sure that the Poet in writing it had not 

[ 79 ] 


been influenced more by his surroundings than 
by the poem from which he apparently took his 
cue. On first reading the lines I recalled the 
strange feeling that came over me the first time 
I entered the house, and some indescribable im¬ 
pulse seemed to urge me to follow the woman's 
example and fly from the room. But fortunately 
I was too much absorbed with material affairs 
to give much heed to the supernatural. The 
thing of first importance was to get this couple 
a safe distance away before they spread their 
hideous impressions all over the neighborhood, for 
once revived the evil omens would travel like 
wildfire, and we were apt to be marooned, so to 
speak, and avoided like a colony of lepers. 

I therefore paid them a full month's wages, for 
which they were so grateful that they promised 
to return to the place whence they came without 
damaging the reputation of my house by reveal¬ 
ing their superstitious misgivings to anyone in the 
neighborhood. 

When they had gone I wrote out advertise¬ 
ments to be sent to a couple of farm journals for 
a cook and gardener; the gruesome scalps were 
taken down and locked up from view, then I pro¬ 
ceeded to the library, determined to investigate 
the Poet's manuscripts, first with a view to deter¬ 
mining, if possible, what value they possessed as 

[ 80 ] 


literature, and to put them out of the way in 
order to prevent any possible repetition of the 
late contretemps. 

As I was about to undertake this task of ex¬ 
amination Chops appeared at the door and an¬ 
nounced that he had made a discovery. His face 
wore an air of solemnity that alarmed me. 

“For heaven’s sake, what have you found 
now?” 

“I have found that the Poet had another man 
living with him here.” 

“How do you know — have you found his body, 
or some skeleton ?” 

It was growing dark, and the lighted lamp he 
had placed on the desk fell far short of penetrat¬ 
ing the shadowy corners of that great room. 

“I have not found his body, but I broke into 
a closet while you were away yesterday and I 
found their old clothes.” 

He went on to explain that on the top floor 
there was a large closet or storeroom, the door 
of which was locked, and as he could find no key 
in the house to fit it he took the liberty of forcing 
it open. Inside there were several old garments 
and shoes, of two widely different sizes; also 
some old collars and shirts, of large and small 
size. Furthermore he reminded me that when 
we took possession of the house there were two 

[ 81 ] 


beds which seemed to have been lately occupied, 
and there were two plates, two knives, two forks 
and two coffee cups in the kitchen. With his 
native Oriental cunning he had pieced together 
these and various other fragments of circum¬ 
stantial evidence, all leading to the conclusion 
that the Poet had a man companion in the house. 

It instantly recurred to me that Miss Sherwin's 
letter, though directed to John Galbraith, was ad¬ 
dressed on the inside, “Dear Jerry.” Was Jerry 
the Poet's fellow-occupant, who for some reason 
kept out of sight and received no mail in his own 
name? Did this not also account for Miss Sher¬ 
win's lack of deep concern when I broke the news 
of the Poet's probable death? And did it not 
explain the impulsive eagerness with which she 
inquired whether I was an officer or a detective, 
and what incited my interest in the Poet and his 
relations? To all of these questions the most 
plausible answer appeared to be in the affirmative. 
Another thought that sustained Chops' hypo¬ 
thesis was, that however crazy or eccentric a man 
might be, it was almost incredible that he would 
have remained for months alone in a remotely 
situated old house that he obviously knew was 
reputed to be infested with evil spirits. 

After dismissing Chops, with thanks for his 
new detection, I turned my attention to the man- 

[ 82 ] 


uscripts. Among the top papers in the drawer 
in which the woman had found the terrifying 
verses there was a sheet on which the following 
lines appeared: — 

The greatest prophets, the greatest reformers, and 
the greatest poets have been misinterpreted and mis¬ 
understood by their contemporaries. No one seems 
to comprehend or appreciate what I write. 

Philosophers and poets of all ages have sought soli¬ 
tude in which to digest, analyze and set down their 
experiences and observations along the line of human 
activities. They have even repaired to places sup¬ 
posed to be the rendezvous of departed spirits, in the 
hope of supplementing their wordly wisdom with some 
wise instinct or precept from their forebears. In this 
retreat I have found impressive solitude. 

Life is a tragedy of loneliness, misery, strife and 
heartaches; Death is the Epjlogue, enacted behind the 
fallen curtain, to which the audience is denied admis¬ 
sion. I have played an active, though inconspicuous, 
role, and the curtain is in readiness to fall upon the 
last scene. Will the audience applaud! 

Next I came upon an old leather-covered scrap 
book containing a few clippings from the editorial 
columns of some newspaper. They dealt chiefly 
with sociological questions, and I surmised that 
they may have been written by the Poet himself. 
Underneath this there were three packages neat¬ 
ly wrapped and tied with string, which I took to 
be manuscript material, and these I laid on the 
desk to be opened and read after the other minor 

[ 83 ] 


items had been scrutinized. In another drawer 
there jyas a small package of envelopes addressed 
to the Poet, but not one of them contained a scrap 
of writing or writing paper. He had probably 
destroyed the letters, but what freakish impulse 
induced him to preserve the empty envelopes, I 
could not imagine. 

It gave me an odd feeling, sitting there alone 
in the dimly lighted room, ransacking the private 
effects of this whimsical genius who had so tragi¬ 
cally crossed the bar and passed on to the great 
Beyond, with his painful and laborious efforts 
totally unrewarded; and with no known posterity 
to inherit the fruits of his intellect. As I looked 
about at the shadowy walls the stern visages of 
the old patriarchs seemed to be staring at me 
accusingly from their lofty perches, as though I 
were a strange and unwelcome intruder. I hur¬ 
ried through the remaining nondescript material 
in the other drawers, and finding nothing more of 
any consequence, I gathered up the three pack¬ 
ages of manuscripts and went down to the living 
room to look them over in a better light, and 
where I could be more comfortable before the 
fire, for the air had grown chilly. 

In reading the lines at which the woman took 
fright I surmised that the author had been a 
man of some parts, and it had considerably 

[ 84 ] 


whetted my appetite for more of his composition. 
It also encouraged me in the thought of having 
his poems brought out as a posthumous publica¬ 
tion, with the prospect of greater emoluments 
than Miss Sherwin had doubtingly predicted. 
And, incidentally, would she return to claim her 
heritage? Perhaps she would, if the poems at¬ 
tained wide popularity and came to her no¬ 
tice. This possibility somewhat increased my 
anxiety to get the work under way. For one 
thing, it would enable me to turn the tables 
on Phil, and prove to him that I was not 
the easy dupe he had accused me of being; that 
she was not the designing, worldly creature he 
avowed her to be. Therefore I set to my task 
with an eagerness born of more or less personal 
pride and self-interest, augmented by a desire to 
do belated justice to the name of one who had 
suffered, toiled and died in obscurity. 

In the living room I sat down in an old- 
fashioned easy chair before a cheerful fire, with 
a background dimly illumined by a shaded lamp 
on a reading table near the fireplace. After light¬ 
ing my pipe I took up the largest package, and 
regarding it meditatively for a moment I care¬ 
fully untied the string and opened the wrapper, 
with a feeling that I was committing an almost 
irreverent act in disclosing before strange eyes 

[ 85 ] 


a treasure that had been sacred to the departed 
Poet; a treasure, moreover, that had doubtless 
been affectionately wrapped and tied by his own 
hand and laid away in the hope that some day, 
in some succeeding generation, it would establish 
his name among the immortals. But as the wrap¬ 
per fell away, behold, to my astonishment, it con¬ 
tained nothing but half a dozen or so old news¬ 
papers ! I hastily broke the strings and tore off 
the wrappers from the other two parcels, and 
imagine my complete bewilderment at finding that 
they too contained a lot of old newspapers dis¬ 
colored with age, — and not a scrap of writing ! 


[ 86 ] 


CHAPTER V 


As I sat engrossed in a profound reverie over 
the pot-pourri of strange and mystifying condi¬ 
tions, Chops came to the door, and holding up a 
rumpled white handkerchief he announced that 
he had just come upon it in a pocket of one of 
the old coats he had brought down from the attic 
storeroom. It was of a fine quality of linen, 
slightly worn, with the letter “S” embroidered in 
one corner, — which in the light of recent events, 
suggested that it might have belonged to Gal¬ 
braith’s housemate, whose name, possibly, was 
Jerry Sherwin. That Galbraith had an associate 
whose name was Jerry, or Gerald, seemed now 
beyond reasonable doubt, but whether his name 
was Sherwin, and if so, what relation he was to 
Minnie, was a matter of sheer conjecture; and 
although my curiosity was considerably height¬ 
ened by this revelation, having suffered no injury 
at the hands of either the Poet or his sequestered 
companion, it did not seem worth while to exert 
myself in ferreting out the problem of whether 

[ 87 ] 


they were still alive, or what became of either 
or both of them. 

“Chops,” said I, “you remember that the agent 
who showed us the house told us that all the 
Poet’s manuscripts were in that writing desk up¬ 
stairs, just as he left them?” 

“I remember.” 

“And what would you think if I were to tell 
you that instead of finding his manuscripts, all 
I found is that bundle of old newspapers?” I 
said, pointing to the contents of the packages 
which lay on the table. Without any visible 
change in his imperturbable expression he an¬ 
swered in the most commonplace manner, — 

“He must have taken them with him.” 

“Taken them with him! How could he take 
them with him, when he died here?” 

“Ah, Allah! Others may have died here, but 
not the Poet. Others yet may die here, but not 
my master.” 

He spoke with the quiet assurance of one who 
knew, and I began to suspect that he must be 
gifted with some preternatural powers of intui¬ 
tion. 

“Chops, you are descended from a noble an¬ 
cestry— among them perhaps some wise and 
heroic ruler. You are too intelligent to share that 
foolish woman’s apprehensions about ghosts here; 

[ 88 ] 


but keep your eyes open around this place and let 
me know if you make any more discoveries.” 

He salaamed in recognition of the compliment, 
and turned to go; but after a step or two, he 
halted to ask — 

“Did you know the outside cellar door was 
open last night, and that the inside door going 
down cellar was unlocked ?” 

“No, I didn’t know it,” I replied, wondering the 
while what significance could be derived from that 
inconsequential circumstance. 

“And last night while you were away I heard 
someone come into the house through the cellar 
door. When I got up he escaped. He will re¬ 
turn ; but next time he will not get away,” he said 
with a meaning look. Without further comment 
Chops left me to digest this tid-bit, while he went 
to prepare dinner. He was as handy and useful 
— and seemingly as much at home — in the kit¬ 
chen as he had been in the streets of Cairo, which 
made him extremely servicable to me at this time. 

After he had gone I fell to wondering, as I had 
often done, about his singularly intuitive and 
vigilant nature. One might suppose that an in¬ 
dividual of his type — an Oriental, bred, born 
and reared among his own people—would be a 
useless asset if transported from his native land, 
with its lassitude, its ancient customs and lazy, 

[ 89 ] 


sluggish modes of existence, to the center of a 
modern civilization. But he had the faculty of 
anticipating most of my needs, and he moved 
noiselessly about the house with the swiftness and 
ease of a panther. He was unobtrusive, yet he 
seemed always to be present when needed. Like 
a faithful collie, his one thought was to serve the 
one to whom he attached himself. 

Chops could not have heard Higby’s story about 
the doors all being locked from the inside, and 
there was no reason — at least none apparent to 
me—why he should have disbelieved the agent’s 
story that the Poet committed suicide. The de¬ 
tached thoughts on life and death that the Poet 
had scribbled and left on the desk and in the 
drawers may or may not have been a hoax, but 
the fact that he was consumptive would warrant 
the supposition that he must have been aware that 
he was nearing the end. His daily and nightly 
rambles would indicate that he was making an 
effort to combat the fatal disease, and possibly the 
exercise in the invigorating mountain air had had 
a curative effect upon him, and he had been pre¬ 
vailed upon by the other man to move to some 
other quarter for reasons known only to them¬ 
selves. 

These speculations were cut short by the sound 
of a vehicle which drove up and stopped at the 

[ 9 ° ] 


front gate; and going to the door, I saw my 
neighbor Higby hurrying up the walk. As he 
entered I observed that his florid face betokened 
great excitement. When we had seated ourselves 
in the living room he viewed me with a long and 
searching look. 

“You seem agitated/’ I said; “What disturbs 
you?” I suspected, of course, that his discom¬ 
posure was due to his having learned of the im¬ 
promptu departure of the gardener and his wife. 

“I don’t know what yer business is,” he began, 
“or if ye have any business at all; and I don’t reck¬ 
on it’s any of my affairs no way; but I’m a purty 
good jedge of human bein’s, and from what I’ve 
see’d of ye I took ye to be as square as a brick.” 

“Thank you, and I hope you will always find 
me worthy of that good opinion.” 

“If I hadn’t of liked yer looks I wouldn’t be 
here now to warn ye what’s about to happen.” 

I met his steady gaze with all the calmness I 
could muster up, and waited for him to proceed. 

“Ye don’t look like a crook, for I never see’d 
one yit thet could look a man square in the eye 
like you can; and if I’m makin’ a mistake it’s 
wuth th’ price of it to find out thet Hiram Higby 
aint no jedge of an honest man. I’ve come to 
tell ye that they’re cornin’ here tonight to arrest 
you and thet man ye’ve got here.” 

191 ] 


He paused briefly to observe the effect of this 
announcement. 

“So if ye want to get out, ye’ve got an hour’s 
time afore they get here.” 

I got up, and going to the door I called Chops. 

“Are ye goin’?” Higby asked excitedly, a 
pained expression overspreading his face. In a 
moment Chops appeared at the door. Higby 
sprang up from his chair and stared at him. — 

“Holy Saints!” he cried, — “I didn’t know he 
was a nigger!” 

“Chops, this gentleman is a friend— one of 
our neighbors; he has come to warn us that the 
officers are coming here tonight to arrest us — 
both of us.” Without appearing to be in the 
least disturbed, Chops walked over to my side, 
and looking the visitor squarely in the eye, he said 
in an even tone, — 

“No one will touch him while I am here.” 

“Thank you, Chops; that’s all.” At which he 
bowed and left the room. Higby stood staring 
after him as he passed out and quietly closed the 
door; then he turned to me, his breath bated with 
astonishment. 

“Wall I’m damned!” he finally exploded. “I 
never see’d a coon look like that afore. Whar 
d’ye git them kind?” 

“He’s not a negro; he is an Egyptian body- 

192 ] 


servant that I brought from Cairo; and he has no 
fear of any thing or any one, save only his 
Maker.” 

Higby scowled and scratched his shaggy 
locks. — 

“I was jest a-thinkin’ thet if thet big constable 
of our’n ever gets in a mixup with thet feller tha’ 
won’t be a whole stick of furniture left in this 
house. And thet little city detective chap he’s 
got with him wouldn’t be no more use to him 
than a woman in a prize fight.” 

“Ah — then the cause of my arrest originates 
in the city, does it?” 

“Yes, the feller followed ye out from the city 
on the train today. Said ye was in town callin’ 
on some suspicious woman. Another woman in 
the house said ye’d paid thet suspicious woman’s 
board, and that ye passed yerself off as a relation 
o’ her’n. He’d been layin’ fer ye in the city fer 
six months, and when he tracked ye out here he 
went to the village and got out a warrant.” 

“Well, a part of that story is true; and that’s 
the way a fellow sometimes gets paid for trying 
to do a decent act.” I explained to Higby about 
receiving the letter, narrated my experiences in 
the city, and told him of our surmise that there 
had been another man concealed in the house with 
the Poet. 


[ 93 ] 


“Sounds like a detective story, don’t it?” he 
observed when I had finished. “But thet gal — 
She must of been a hummer, hey? Too bad ye 
never can trust ’em.” 

“Now,” said I, “they’ll probably come here to 
arrest us tonight, and seeing it’s too late to ar¬ 
range for bail we may have to spend the night 
in—” 

“I’ll go yer bail,” he interrupted. “And if thet 
aint enough I’ll stay right here with ye all till 
mornin’, when ye can take ’em into town and show 
’em who ye air.” 

“That’s just the point I was getting at. You 
have proved yourself to be a friend in time of 
need— one worth having. We’ll have supper to¬ 
gether, then my man will go down and explain 
matters to your family. We will all spend the 
night here, and we’ll try to amuse those fellows 
with some good stories.” 

“Ye wouldn’t tell ’em the place is ha’nted, 
would ye? They wouldn’t stay over night if ye 
did, ’cause Bill Henneker said thet detective is 
scart t’ death of ghosts. When Bill told him 
about this place he wanted Bill t’ come all by his- 
self and get ye.” 

I went to the kitchen and told Chops to pre¬ 
pare dinner for two. “Chops,” said I in lowered 
tones, “those officers will probably remain here 

[ 94 ] 


over night; but they are harmless — don’t worry 
about me. If they stay, I expect to entertain 
them with some stories; and I have here a poem 
that I intend to read for their amusement. I will 
first read it to you, and tonight when I finish the 
fourth and last stanza, perhaps you can make some 
little rustling noise at the back door of the room 
that will add impressiveness and give the gentle¬ 
men a more realistic idea of the story. But mind 
you keep out of sight.” 

I read the poem to Chops. — “Do you get the 
idea ? Remember the last line. . . . It’s only 

a harmless joke, you know.” A merry twinkle 
came into his dark eyes. He nodded understand- 
ingly and went about his work. 

After dinner as we came out from the dining 
room Chops spoke to me aside — “The table and 
lamp are over at the side near the dining room 
door. It will stay partly open. There will be a 
bright fire-light, enough to read by.” I nodded 
assent, supposing of course that at the proper 
moment he would reach in through the half open 
door and extinguish the light. I had scarcely 
quitted him when there came a loud rap at the 
front door. I drew it wide open, and there stood 
the two officers. Higby had described them ac¬ 
curately in saying the “big constable,” and the 
“little detective.” The former was tall, lean and 

[ 95 ] 


angular, with deep-furrowed countenance; the 
latter was short and stocky, with small, shifty 
eyes and a crusty, pugnacious face. They showed 
surprise at seeing Higby, who stood close behind 
me. — 

“Gentlemen,” said I, after inviting them in, 
“Mr. Higby has told me the nature of your er¬ 
rand, and I am at your service. But first sit 
down and let me inform you of the circumstances, 
then if you wish to take me, I am ready to go 
along.” 

The constable was civil enough, but the other 
was sullen and short-spoken. We all sat down, 
and I began my story from the time of reading 
the advertisement and sketched it briefly down 
to the time of their arrival. 

The detective shifted his legs and grunted — 
“Sounds well, but I guess you’d better tell it to 
the Judge.” 

Higby came to my rescue. “Now looky here 
Bill,” — addressing the constable — “I know this 
here man is all right, and ye know me well 
enough t’ know I wouldn’t try to put nuthin’ over 
on ye. I tole him I’d go his bail, and if ye all 
wasn’t satisfied with that, I’d stay here and watch 
with ye t’night, and ye could take him to the city 
in the mornin’. O’course ye wouldn’t think o’ 
puttin’ him in a calaboose over night nohow, even 

[ 96 ] 


if thar was one hereabouts. Thar aint no train 
down t’night, and ye can’t very well walk him 
clean to the city in this rain storm. Th’s a big 
fire and plenty o’wood here, so ye might as well 
stay here and make yerselves to home.” 

The detective shrugged his shoulders and 
looked at his watch, then his shifty eyes darted 
about the room, finally resting on the constable. 
“I’d rather get them out of here tonight,” he said 
sharply, with a swift glance at me. 

The constable went to the window and peered 
out into the darkness. The wind was blowing 
hard, and scattering raindrops were beating 
against the window panes.— 

“But I’m a’servin’ this warrant,” he drawled, 
“and I aint keen fer goin’ out in this rain and 
gettin’ wet, with nowhar in particular to take ’em 
to.” He sauntered back to the fire, took off his 
rain coat, and kicking the chair closer to the 
hearth he sat down. “This looks purty good to 
me,” he chuckled, rubbing his palms together be¬ 
fore the crackling logs. 

The detective, though churlish and determined, 
finally sat down again, but without removing his 
outer coat. “It may stop raining,” he persisted. 

“Better let my man put up your horses,” I 
suggested. 

The detective was on his feet like a flash. — 

[ 97 ] 


“That don’t go. I’m on to your little game,” 
he snapped. “Where is the fellow you call your 
man? I want him here. Officer, you hold this 
one and I’ll bring the other one in,” he said, 
starting toward the half-open door leading into 
the dining room where he had perhaps heard 
Chops clearing away the dishes. 

“Stop!” I commanded in a loud, stern voice; 
and he stopped short as if he had bumped into 
a wall. 

“Who do you command?” he growled, facing 
about and drawing himself up haughtily. 

“I command you, sir. Have you a warrant 
with you for my man?” 

“This officer has, — for both of you.” 

“Whom does your warrant call for? You don’t 
even know my Egyptian servant’s name, and you 
will not enter that kitchen without a warrant for 
the man you are to arrest.” 

The detective and the constable exchanged 
glances. 

“The gentleman is right,” said the constable. 

“Say, Mr. Detective,” snickered Higby, — “I 
was sort o’ hopin’ Mr. Fletcher would let ye go, 
’cause I’d like t’ see th’ fun. But now thet ye’ve 
come more t’ yer sober senses, I want to tell ye 
thet if ye know’d what ye was up against ye 
wouldn’t be so all-fired keen. In th’ country 

[ 98 ] 


whar thet big feller comes from they jest about 
live on white men, and if this gentleman here 
gave him th’ word he’d buckle ye up like a jack¬ 
knife and toss ye out th’ winder.” 

“Perhaps it will be better,” said I, “if I take 
this officer”—indicating the constable—“and 
bring my man in and introduce him to you, after 
which he will return to his work.” 

I went to the kitchen with Henneker to find 
Chops, but he was not there. We looked about 
the house, but Chops was nowhere to be found. 

“Too bad,” lamented the constable; “I reckon 
he’s give us the slip. That makes it look bad.” 
He seemed so crestfallen that I had to reassure 
him.— 

“Have no fear; he’ll be back. He must have 
overheard me tell Pligby that I would send him 
down to notify the family that he would be out 
all night.” 

We returned to the living room and I started 
to explain matters to the detective, who promptly 
flew into a rage and stamped about the room, 
brandishing his arms and swearing lustily as he 
went. The advantage I had gained a few mo¬ 
ments before in stopping his headlong rush for 
the kitchen was now entirely lost, and with his 
confidence thus re-established he became more 
boldly aggressive. — 


[ 99 ] 


“What’s all this bluff game about his being a 
man-eater ? You’re a pair of crooks — both of you 
— and your giving him the chance to slip out will 
make it go all the harder with you,” he threatened, 
with a wicked glance at me. “Next thing we 
know, you'll be wanting to carry a message to 
someone.” 

“Maybe you’d like to have me go out and find 
him for you,” I suggested. 

“Let’s see you try it!” he hissed through his 
teeth, and a sinister gleam shot from his half 
closed eyes. — “You are damned impudent.” 

During all this exchange of words Higby had 
kept his seat in silence; but at the last remark he 
rose to his feet and his clouded features portended 
a brewing storm. He looked hard at the detec¬ 
tive. — 

“You think I’m tryin’t’ bluff ye, hey? Wall, 
from th’ way ye act ye remind me of a little fice 
dog I’ve got at home, that runs around and barks 
like hell inside the house, with th’ doors all shut, 
when th’s a big strange dog outside, but if he got 
out and saw the dog, he’d break his fool neck 
gettin’ back inside. . . . Now looky here, 

you fellers, seein’ as we’re all goin’ to spend the 
night together in this house we might as well be 
sociable; so let’s get down to business, and let’s 
have peace —for God's sake let's have peace !” 

[ IOO ] 


he roared with a commanding voice. Whereupon 
we all sat down. I lighted my pipe, Higby bit 
off a huge quid of tobacco, the constable rolled 
a cigarette, while the detective looked sullenly 
into the fire. 

“Mr. Higby,” I said, after a strained silence of 
some duration, — “you remember our late conver¬ 
sation about the Poet?” 

“Yes, I sartinly do. Has he pestered ye any 
yit?” 

“No, not yet, but he — or someone else — got 
away with all his manuscripts.” 

“What d’ye mean he got away with ’em?” I 
related my disappointing experience of a couple 
of hours before, — how the bundles of manu¬ 
scripts had turned out to be nothing but waste 
paper. 

Higby stared inquiringly at the sleuth, who 
showed not the slightest concern. 

“What d’ye make out o’ that, Mr. Detective?” 

The detective maintained a sullen silence. 

“Wall now that’s the queerest joke I’ve hee’rd 
fer many a day,” said Higby. 

“And I know something still queerer than 
that,” said I. “This devilish house is so full of 
spooks and queer noises that I can’t keep a cook, 
or gardener, or anyone about the place, except 
that Arab servant.” 


[ IOI ] 


The detective hunched his shoulders and cast 
a mistrustful glance about him. 

“But didn’t I tell ye th’ fust time I see’d ye 
thet every mother’s son that’s tried to live here 
fer the last hundred years has been murdered, 
er hed somethin’ awful happen to ’em? And 
thet Poet, — I tole ye as like as not he spent his 
daytimes in some attic room here, and then 
snooped around at night. It’s bad enough to live 
in a house with th’ sperits of dead people, ’thout 
havin’ a crazy lunatic prowlin’ about after dark.” 

“Yes, and I’m beginning to believe you’re right. 
Only yesterday my man broke into an attic store 
room and found a lot of old clothes. The cellar 
door has repeatedly been found unlocked, and 
even my man Chops — who is proof against fear 
or superstition — locks his bedroom door at night. 
The woman I had here said the house was full 
of quakes and whisperings, and twice in one night 
while she was sitting up reading, her lamp sud¬ 
denly went out, without a breath of air stirring. 
Positively, to one who is at all inclined to believe 
in the supernatural, this house would seem like 
a veritable nest of hobgoblins. During my ab¬ 
sence in town this woman and her husband were 
actually driven out of the house, and they slept 
in the barn on the hay. They left this afternoon, 
bag and baggage.” 


[ 102 ] 


“Wall now I want to know! — And thet's why 
them people left so quick, is it?” 

This dialogue was having a telling effect on the 
nerves of the detective. He shifted his legs, 
cleared his throat, grated his chair about un¬ 
easily and looked hard at the constable, who 
seemed none too comfortable himself. By this 
time the rain was coming down in torrents, and 
the roaring wind had risen almost to a hurricane. 
I sympathized with Chops, whose return I anx¬ 
iously awaited, as it seemed an opportune moment 
to introduce the poem. 

At length I heard Chops enter the kitchen, and 
the detective, whose keen, attentive ear had 
caught the sound, was on his feet in an instant. — 

“What's that?” he asked in a loud whisper. 

“It's only my man — would you like to go out 
and interview him?” 

With a shrug of contempt he sniffed and sat 
down. 

“Now gentlemen, this conversation reminds me 
that I have lately discovered, here in this house, 
a sort of document that puzzles me; and I'm glad 
you're all here, for I want your opinion on it.” 

I drew the paper from my pocket and slowly 
unfolded it, the detective eyeing me narrowly. 
“Here is one of the most curious warnings you 
ever saw; and it was by the merest chance that 

[ 103 ] 


I came across it, in a musty smelling old room — 
I’d rather not say which one — very near the spot 
where a man is said to have been foully murdered. 
It reminds me of a case, a few years ago, where a 
murderer was detected through a message said to 
have been written by the disembodied spirit of 
the victim — in his own blood, while it was still 
warm.” 

Henneker rolled his eyes about. — ‘Til bet it 
was right in this room!” 

Disregarding his comment, I passed the sheet 
to Higby and asked what he thought about it. 

He took it gingerly and at the first glance he 
exclaimed — 

“Written in some poor devil's blood!—Wall 
what d'ye think o' that!” The other two craned 
their necks and looked at it, awe-stricken. 

“Yes, I know, but that isn't the worst of it. I 
don't mind the poor devil's blood — what concerns 
me most, is what the thing says.” 

“What does it say?” jerked the detective, in a 
husky voice, his curiosity having stirred him from 
his sulky mood. 

“Wait a second; I may as well tell my man 
he can go to bed, then I'll read it to you.” I 
watched the detective to see if he offered to fol¬ 
low me; but he was too preoccupied even to take 
notice of my last remark. I passed into the kit- 

[ 104 ] 


chen, signalled to Chops that all was in readiness, 
and returning to the company I carefully drew 
down the blinds, then moving my chair I sat down 
facing them, with my back close to the fire. 

“Now gentlemen, when I finish reading this I 
want a candid expression of your opinion of it, 
and whether you think I ought to heed its warn¬ 
ing.” 

In the deepest and most tremulous gutteral voice 
that I could command I read the first stanza, and 
under my lashes I saw, to my great satisfaction, 
that its effect was nothing short of electrical. As 
if to help matters along, a loose shutter rattled 
vigorously in the wind, whereat they all looked 
up at the window, quaking with fear. I continued 
reading, and at the end of the third stanza I 
hesitated, looked slowly up, and permitted my 
eyes to wander stealthily about the room, resting 
them momentarily on the window with the loose 
shutter. The three pairs of wide-staring eyes 
and the three distended mouths could not have 
been more rigidly set had they been transfixed 
by a stroke of lightning. I went on in a deep, 
quavering voice, — 

The Bloody Hand, bedripped with ancient gore, 
With jealous rage regards each entrant here, 

And stamps this gruesome sign on every door, — 
This house is damned—it’s haunted! 


[ 105 ] 


with a resonant emphasis on the final line. In¬ 
stantly there was a terrific, resounding bang! 
that shook the house to its very foundation, and 
simultaneously the light went out, leaving the 
room in darkness, for the fire had burned low. 
Simultaneously, also, I jumped to my feet, the 
three chairs went over backward, and there was 
a general scramble for the doors. 

My alarm was not feigned, for I thought surely 
a bolt of lightning had struck the house. The 
commotion was uproarious. In the dimly re¬ 
flected light from the fire I could see the detective 
tugging frantically at the latch of the hall door. 

“My God! My God! the devils have locked us 
in!” he shouted in a great voice, while the con¬ 
stable struggled distractedly at one of the win¬ 
dows, trying to open it. Presently he wheeled 
about, and catching up my favorite antique chair 
which stood nearby, he raised it high above his 
head and hurled it through the window with a 
tremendous crash, then jumped through after it 
and disappeared in the darkness. At this new 
noise the detective took renewed fright, and quit¬ 
ting the door he spun around hysterically three or 
four times in the center of the room, then catch¬ 
ing a glimpse of the open window he made a 
lurch for it and vanished from view. I looked 
for Higby, but he was nowhere in sight. Pre- 

[ 106 ] 


sently his roaring voice reverberated in slow 
measured tones from out the darkness in some 
far corner,— 

“What tha’ hell d’ye reckon that was?” 

“Sounded like a door closing,” I answered, still 
unable to make out his figure in the gloom. 

“A door!” he shouted. “A door! I reckon ye 
must be goin’ deef.” 

After some further remarks and ejaculations 
he ventured out from his hiding place and stood 
before the fire. Glancing over at the demolished 
window, he snickered, — “Wall, I reckon Bill and 
that detective must hev went out t’ put up th’ 
hoss!” 

When we had recovered our equanimity I asked 
Higby his opinion of the poem. For a spell he 
gazed at me with a half serious, half comic ex¬ 
pression. “I reckon ye’ve already got Bill’s and 
the detective’s opinion, but my opinion is thet I’m 
a-gwine ter set right here and keep this fire a- 
humpin’ till daylight comes.” 

He poked the coals together and threw on some 
wood, while I excused myself for a minute and 
ran upstairs, where I found Chops in bed, with 
the light extinguished. 

“Chops,” I called, “is that your idea of a rust¬ 
ling noise? But how do you suppose that hall 
door got locked ?” 


[ io7 ] 


“I locked it from the hall outside,” he an¬ 
swered. “I thought it would be better if they 
found themselves locked in. Every door to the 
room was locked, except the one I slammed; then 
I locked that.” He added that he had quietly un¬ 
locked the inside doors when he heard Higby and 
me talking after the men got out. Chops got up, 
lit the lamp and began dressing himself. 

“What are you dressing for? Did you think 
it’s morning?” 

“No, but I can't sleep. With your permission 
I will go to the cellar. I may not be back for 
some time.” 

In the living room I found Higby sitting in 
front of a blazing fire, his head between his hands. 

“Headache?” I inquired. 

“No, jest a-holdin' of it to keep it from flyin' 
off.” 

I gave Higby a stiff drink of brandy, then 
another; but still he refused to move from the 
room. After waiting an hour or so to see if 
“Bill” and the detective would return, I grew 
tired and went upstairs to lie down, leaving Hig¬ 
by dozing comfortably in a chair before the fire. 
I threw myself across the bed, without undress¬ 
ing, and an hour or two later I heard Chops come 
up the back stairs and enter his room. 

“Chops! Did you find out anything?” 

[ 108 ] 


“Not tonight, but tomorrow night I will try 
again.” 

He had scarcely finished speaking when Hig- 
by’s voice bellowed from below. — “Hey! H-e-y!! 
TVs somebody in this house! What th’ hell kind 
of a place is this anyway!” 

I hurried downstairs and found Higby frantic- 
ly piling wood on the fire. When I explained 
that it was only Chops that he had heard moving 
about he became more calm, and we spent the 
rest of the night together in our chairs. 

After an early breakfast Higby went home to 
look after his chores. He volunteered to return 
if I had any need of him, but I declined his offer 
with thanks, feeling that Chops and I could take 
care of ourselves, at least in the daytime. When 
he had gone I looked over the old newspapers that 
I had mistaken for manuscripts, — a performance 
that had been suspended the evening before by 
Higby’s arrival. They consisted mostly of the 
front pages torn from various New York papers, 
with headlines in display type giving account of 
the disappearance of four hundred thousand dol¬ 
lars, mostly in bonds and negotiable securities 
from the office of a big corporation. One or two 
trusted employes were suspected of being impli¬ 
cated, — but no arrests had been made. The com¬ 
pany’s detectives and the police were working on 

[ 109 ] 


the case, with prospects of running the culprit 
to cover at any moment. In one of the accounts 
some ingenious reporter had figured out that the 
plunder would almost fill a trunk, and that it 
must have been removed in instalments. In none 
of the newspapers, however, could I find where 
any real progress had been made toward recover¬ 
ing the securities or apprehending the guilty per¬ 
son. 

Early in the forenoon constable Henneker 
drove up in a single seated one-horse buggy. He 
wore a shamefaced expression, and apologized 
profusely for his disorderly exit the night before. 
He also offered to repair the broken window. He 
said he got nearly half-way home before he even 
thought of his horse, then he returned for him in 
the rain, soaked to the skin, for in the haste of 
his departure he had neglected to take his rain¬ 
coat. An hour or so after reaching his home 
the detective appeared there, and spent the re¬ 
mainder of the night. The sleuth insisted that 
owing to a pressing engagement in the city, which 
would likely take up the entire day, he must go 
down on the early morning train. He had left 
Henneker to secure me and my man and bring 
us in on the afternoon train; and, without fail, 
to meet him at a certain address at six o’clock 
that evening. That was the earliest hour at 

[ no ] 


which he could possibly meet us, and if he should 
be longer detained by urgent business, Chops and 
I were to be held to await his arrival. 

At my request Henneker showed me the war¬ 
rant, which called for the arrest of two persons 
I had never heard of—both having several 
aliases, also unfamiliar to me. 

“Now, Mr. Constable, you probably know as 
well as I that you have no more right to arrest 
me and my Egyptian servant on this warrant 
than you have to arrest Higby or anyone else in 
the neighborhood. No matter how innocent a 
man may be of a crime of which he is accused, 
it is an extremely embarrassing and difficult thing 
to extricate and free himself from suspicion, when 
once he becomes entangled in the meshes of the 
law. And while I dislike to put you to so much 
inconvenience, it is a serious thing for a fellow 
to be arrested and advertised as a felon, so I 
must insist on my legal rights.” 

“Don’t blame ye a mite,” he agreed. “I know 
it’s all a big mistake, and I’ll go down and tell 
thet detective that he’s got to change his warrant, 
or else back-water a bit until he gits scented on 
the right trail. He’s a foxy hound, thet feller is, 
but if I aint mistaken he’s got offi’n the fox trail 
onto a lion’s track this time. They make mis¬ 
takes sometimes, ye know.” 

[ in ] 


“Yes, they’re probably after the man that Gal¬ 
braith had in hiding here, but they are a few 
months late in arriving. And these old news¬ 
papers that I found here” — handing one to Hen- 
neker—“these would indicate that some former 
occupant of this house was interested in the pub¬ 
lished accounts of a four hundred thousand dol¬ 
lar theft.” 

He looked eagerly at the headlines. — “By gad! 
— I’ll bet thet feller was right here under our 
noses all the time; and to think, we never know’d 
it! But he sure picked a safe place to hide!” 

“Well, he was at least no petty thief; and I 
suppose I ought to feel complimented at being 
mistaken for a fellow that could get away with 
a cool half-million.” 

“And thet poor, half-starved Poet was a-keepin’ 
of him here! Wouldn’t think he’d need t’ be 
writin’ fool poetry when he hed the drop on a 
crook with all thet money. Half a million dollars! 
Gee whiz! I wonder what he done with it all! 
And it says here that tha’s a ten thousand dollar 
reward fer him. Gee whiz! — if I could ketch 
him and git thet reward, my old woman could 
hev a hired gal and a new spring dress!” 

“All right, and if you are willing to give a 
little time to this matter, we may bring about 
that happy state of affairs. My servant seems 

[ H2 ] 


to be gifted with a remarkable sort of instinct, and 
he's pretty clever at ferreting out what's going 
on. He claims that this house was entered night 
before last while I was in town. I don't keep any 
money or valuables here, and there isn't a thing 
in the house, so far as I know, that's worth carry¬ 
ing off, — unless possibly the invader might have 
stolen the manuscripts, which I doubt, because no 
one would think of taking those chances for any¬ 
thing of such doubtful value." 

The constable's eyes grew bigger and bigger 
as the story unfolded, and when I asked him if 
he'd be willing to spend a few nights there watch¬ 
ing for the return of the marauder he said, — 

“Why, fer thet amount of money, I'd set up 
here all night with the Old Nick himself." 

“Very well, I think I can assure you that you 
will find no worse company than that of myself 
and the Egyptian, unless it be some trespasser 
from the outside." 

At this juncture Higby's buggy appeared at the 
front gate, and a few moments later he was en¬ 
thusiastically absorbed in our scheme. “But 
looky here," he cautioned, “if yer goin' to hatch 
up a plot to ketch thet Poet, er whoever it is, ye 
don't want no lights burnin' so's he can see what 
ye're about." 

We all agreed to form a vigilance committee 

[ 113 ] 


and sit up that night, with the windows darkened 
so that no light could show through. The two 
men were to come up about dusk, and Henneker, 
in contemplating the rich reward, became so ex¬ 
cited that he forgot all about his engagement to 
meet the detective in town. 

“Har! Har!” he laughed — “What a joke it 
would be on them smart city chaps if we landed 
thet crook ’thout their ever knowin’ thet we was 
a-huntin’ fer him! Guess they’d wake up t’ find 
thet Bill Henneker was some detective hisself. 
Why, jest think of it! — my name would be all 
over the front pages of the New York papers, and 
this little squatter’s village would be put on the 
map fer keeps.” 

“And say, Bill,” put in Higby, “ye know ye can 
deputize me as yer assistant, and I’ll help ye ketch 
him and take him in. I reckon we’ll show ’em thet 
this aint no Sleepy Holler village. You can hev 
th’ hull of th’ reward — I don’t want a cent of it 
— but I’d like t’ be in on the rest o’ th’ game, 
’cause ye know it was me thet fust suspicioned 
thet that Poet, er his pal, er someone, was still 
snoopin’ about here. Ye know thet’s th’ fust 
thing I tole ye, wasn’t it Mr. Fletcher?” 

“It certainly was,” I agreed, “and you may 
rest assured that I’ll see to % it that you get your 
full share of credit if we catch the thief.” 

[ 114 ] 


“Ketch ’im! Why, he’s as good as caught al¬ 
ready. He aint got no more show than a rabbit 
in a box trap. I’ve know’d Bill Henneker here 
fer more’n thirty years, and I never see’d a crook 
slip through his fingers yet. He know’d the min- 
net he sot eyes on you thet ye wasn’t no crook, — 
jest th’ same as I did.” Henneker’s chest swelled 
with pride; and with a solemn face he made an 
impressive bow. 

Mean time the speaker hesitated and appeared 
to be cogitating some intricate problem. — “But 
we must ketch thet feller alive, if we can,” he 
finally resumed, “so’s he can confess and tell us 
whar all thet money is; ’cause if we hev t’ kill 
’im th’ aint no knowin’ if we’ll ever find it. It 
may be hid somewhars about this house! Gosh! 
think of this old devil-pestered house turnin’ into 
a gold mine like that! Bad as it is, I wouldn’t 
mind ownin’ of it m’self.” 

Thus it happened that these two honest, credul¬ 
ous rustics worked themselves up to a high pitch 
of expectancy, upon no more tangible grounds 
than the supposition that the house had been en¬ 
tered during my absence by someone who might 
or might not repeat his visit. There was but 
little more reason to suppose that the person 
would return that night, or even the next, than 
there would be for supposing that, because a 

[ ns ] 


burglar had been driven from a house he had 
tried to rob on Monday night, he would return 
to attempt the performance on the following 
Wednesday night. While they were there an¬ 
imatedly indulging their fancies in the visionary 
fortunes of Henneker and the limelight of fame 
into which they were both about to become highly 
conspicuous, the comedy was so diverting to them 
that it seemed a pity to interrupt their fanciful 
dreams. But when they had gone to their re¬ 
spective homes to prepare for the coming night's 
possible events, and perhaps also to excite great 
fear and expectations among their families and 
friends— expectations that were almost certainly 
doomed to early disappointment — I felt guilty 
for having fortuitously aroused and encouraged 
their hopes. And yet, if by any chance the pre¬ 
monition of Chops should be fulfilled, and the 
night-prowler should return, the measure of my 
alarm would naturally be reduced in proportion 
to the number present to receive him. 

I determined at any rate to provide my com¬ 
panions with some good wine and other refresh¬ 
ments, in the hope of making up to them in con¬ 
viviality whatever deficiency there might be in 
thrills of excitement. I was disposed to admire 
their pluck in returning to spend another night 
in the house after the incident of the night before, 

[ n6 ] 


for which I felt a bit conscience-stricken. The 
detective at least had been so thoroughly intim¬ 
idated that he did not return, even in daylight, 
and I had no doubt that his professed engage¬ 
ment in the city was merely an adroit subterfuge; 
also that his directions to have Chops and me 
brought in late in the afternoon had been given 
with a view to having us imprisoned over night 
in retaliation for what he had termed impudence 
on my part. And the hint that he might be late 
added to this conviction. His demeanor had con¬ 
vinced me that he was determined to humiliate 
me, and that his purpose was to punish me first, 
then give me the chance of establishing my in¬ 
nocence afterwards. Therefore, as far as he was 
concerned, my conscience absolved me from any 
feeling of remorse for having frightened him 
away. 

Early in the evening my two guests of the night 
arrived, and after locking their horses and bug¬ 
gies securely in the barn to avoid exciting the 
mistrust of any night visitor, they were soon 
comfortably seated in the house, where they were 
not long in refreshing their parched throats with 
a liquid that is supposed to stimulate good-fellow¬ 
ship and let down the barriers of restraint in those 
chivalric persons who thirst for deeds of reckless 
daring. It operated so successfully in this case 

[ ii7 ] 


that inside of an hour Higby was stalking about 
the dimly lighted room shouting, — 

“I aint afeard o’ no man’s ghost! Bring on 
yer Poets, bring on yer ghosts, trot out all yer 
devil’s imps, and line ’em up right here in front 
of me!” And with a majestic flourish of his long 
muscular right arm, — “If I don’t knock ’em all 
into a cocked hat, one atop another, the devil take 
me by the ears, and may I never hev another 
drop t’ drink as long as I live!” 

“Sh-sh-sh!” cautioned the constable, — “Cam 
yerself, Hiram, and set down, else they might 
hear ye talkin’ an’ pounce down on us like a 
passel o’ wolves on a lame sheep. Ye’d be nothin’ 
but mutton fer them sperits if they git stirred up. 
Hark! I heer’d a noise jest then!” he whispered, 
straining his ears, while he slowly let down the 
glass he was in the act of raising to his lips. I 
hastened to assure them that it was only Chops 
in the kitchen. I suspected that he had just 
closed the door leading into the cellar, whither 
he had gone to take up his post for the night, — 
though of this I gave them no intimation. 

“I wish thet feller would git t’ bed and stop 
openin’ and shuttin’ them doors — it gits me all 
haired up a-hearin’ of so many noises,” growled 
Henneker, whose ears were becoming more and 
more alert. 


[ n8 ] 


“Needn't let the little noises bother ye none, 
Bill, 'cause when thet feller comes in he won't 
hev no bells on. Th' fust noise ye'll hear when he 
arrives will be a whack on the top o' yer head 
from behind." 

At length the supply of wine gave out, the talk 
ceased and we settled down to wait and listen for 
the Poet, or the thief, or whoever might appear 
on the scene. The light was lowered to a mere 
wavering spark, and the old clock struck nine, ten 
and eleven, with all else as silent and dismal as 
the chambers of death, save for the monotonous 
tick, tock, tick, tock, that issued from the mantel 
over the fireplace. 

Higby was reclining peacefully in a large easy 
chair, fast asleep — his mouth wide open — and 
perhaps enjoying his hard-earned fame for hav¬ 
ing throttled and subjugated a red-handed crim¬ 
inal, and choking him into a confession of all his 
misdeeds and compelling him to divulge the hid¬ 
ing place of all his booty. Henneker was less 
recumbent and more wakeful, but as the effect 
of the wine wore off he showed a diminishing 
interest in the prospective happenings, with a 
correspondingly increased uneasiness, and ap¬ 
parent longing for a more comfortable chair, or 
some bed or couch whereon to lay his aching 
head. In his half sleeping, half wakeful state 

[ 119 ] 


he occasionally bestirred himself, blinked his eyes 
and craned his neck about like a frightened 
chicken in the dark, trying to make out where 
he was and what was going on about him. I too 
was becoming drowsy, and had begun to marvel 
at my stupidity in sitting up there for hours with 
a pair of inebriated countrymen, who in their 
half-intoxicated, sleeping condition would proba¬ 
bly scramble out at the nearest window on being 
awakened by any alarm. 

Not a sound had issued from the cellar, and I 
was uncertain whether or not Chops was still at 
his post. In fact I was on the point of arousing 
my companions and taking them oil to bed, when 
the mellow-toned old mantel clock slowly tolled 
the hour of twelve. A moment later I was 
brought involuntarily to my feet by the most un¬ 
earthly cry I had ever heard issue from a human 
throat. It was about half way between a squawk 
and a stifled shriek, and seemed to be a signal 
of dire distress. The sound unquestionably came 
from under the floor where we sat. Higby, too, 
was on his feet, blinking his eyes and gazing 
about in a listening attitude. 

“TIT Holy Saints protect us! — What was 
that?” he cried. Henneker, who had now fallen 
fast asleep, stretched his arms and yawned, — 

“This is the damndest house I ever see’d! 

[ 120 ] 


What’s all th’ racket about, anyway? Set down, 
Hiram!” 

The alarming cry from below was presently 
followed by loud thumping and tumbling about, 
and we could hear muffled growls and cursing 
amid the clashing of old barrels, boxes and such 
obstructive matter as fell in the way of the strug¬ 
gling combatants. It sounded as if there were a 
number of men engaged. 

“He’s got him! He’s got him!” I shouted, and 
started for the door, — forgetful that my com¬ 
rades were totally unaware that Chops was sta¬ 
tioned in the cellar. 

“Who’s got who?” cried Higby. “Hey, thar! 
Slow up a bit — thar might be a dozen of ’em 
down thar! Better let ’em fight it out atween 
themselves if they’ve found th’ treasure box.” 

But there was no time for deliberation or argu¬ 
ment. Higby’s pertinent question, “Who’s got 
who?” brought me to a sudden realization that 
my first impression may have been a mistaken 
one, and Chops might be an under man in the 
bout. If so, we must rescue him with all haste. 

“Come on, boys — quick!” I cried, and seeing 
I was determined they followed. We all rushed 
pell mell through the unlighted rooms to the cel¬ 
lar door, and down the stairs into the dense black¬ 
ness, the cautious Higby shouting from the rear 

[ 121 ] 


at the top of his voice, “Hold on thar! Fer God’s 
sake, hold on!” 

The commotion had subsided and we could 
hear the labored breathing of one and the gurg¬ 
ling, strangling gasps of another, but which one 
it was that was being choked I could not discern. 
I struck a match, which a gust from the open 
cellar door extinguished, but in the momentary 
flash of light I saw that Chops was atop his vic¬ 
tim, with his long, sinewy fingers tightened in a 
death-grip about his throat. 

“Don’t kill him, Chops! We want him alive!” 
I cried. 

With the aid of Higby and the constable, Chops 
dragged his struggling prey up the stairs, while 
I ran on ahead to bring the light. By the time 
they had landed him on the floor at the top of the 
steps in a half-conscious state, I was there with 
the lamp, — and let the amazement of the whole 
group be imagined, when we discovered that the 
vanquished intruder was no other than the de¬ 
tective himself! 


[ 122 ] 


CHAPTER VII 


Higby and the constable lifted the man to his 
feet and between them he stumbled along to the 
living room, while I hurried to get him a draught 
of brandy. Thus stimulated he soon revived and 
looked dazedly about into the faces of those pres¬ 
ent. 

“I thought ye was in town,” remarked the con¬ 
stable as the detective’s eyes rested on him for a 
moment; “and I thought I’d surprise ye by stayin’ 
out here and ketchin’ the real criminal. Lucky 
thing I didn’t arrest these fellers and take ’em 
down thar t’ sleep in th’ cooler all night, with 
you out here a-huntin’ fer the Lord knows what!” 

Higby, who had looked on in sombre silence, 
now broke in. — 

“Yes, and now he’s come out here and spiled 
our hull game,” he said ruefully. “If ye had of 
stayed in town whar ye b’long, Mr. Detective, 
we’d hed the culprit caught afore mornin’; but 
now I reckon th’ jig’s all up fer good.” 

The poor man, seemingly oblivious to what was 
said, continued to stare about, first at one, then 

[ 123 ] 


at another, as if in quest of the one who had 
attacked him in the dark. Finally his eyes rested 
on Henneker in a long, fixed glare. Had he heard 
my appeal to Chops not to kill him, he might have 
known it was the Egyptian that he was grappling 
with; but Henneker’s remark about his lying in 
wait for the “real criminal” seemed to shift the 
blame onto his own shoulders. 

When the detective revived sufficiently to talk 
he explained away the mystery by telling us that 
the whole mixup had resulted from a stratagem 
on his part. Some months ago he had tracked 
a criminal to this house, in which he was con¬ 
vinced that a treasure had been hidden; and al¬ 
though the thief had become alarmed and fled, 
he made occasional return visits here. The de¬ 
tective had sought to get me and my man out of 
the way so he could apprehend the culprit in the 
act of uncovering the plunder. He had lately 
been informed through one of his stool-pigeons 
that another visit was about to be made, and the 
warrant was procured with a view to having Hen¬ 
neker take Chops and myself into the city — 
where arrangements had been made to put us 
up at a hotel for the night — while he intended to 
stay in the house and watch for his man. His 
purpose, he declared, had not been to harm us, 
but only to get us away for a day or so. He 

[ 124 ] 


justified himself in this unlawful act by asserting 
that the ends of justice demanded it, and they 
would otherwise have been defeated. Now that 
his plans had been frustrated he offered to share 
the reward with us if we would lend him our 
assistance next day in finding the securities. Al¬ 
though his declarations seemed consistent with 
his instructions to Henneker — and they tallied, 
moreover, with his stubborn insistence on getting 
us out of the house the previous night — his ex¬ 
cuses seemed rather too flimsy and illogical to car¬ 
ry conviction, since he could easily have taken us 
into his confidence before, and our presence there 
would not have hindered him in accomplishing 
his purposes. He was now altogether too com¬ 
municative to inspire confidence, and it looked as 
if his friendly overtures were only a subtle ex¬ 
pedient to disarm suspicion. 

“Wall,” said Higby, “ye come mighty nigh 
makin' a good guess, but ye was a day late in yer 
reckoning, 'cause yer man was here and got into 
the house the night before ye arrived. While ye 
was trackin' this innocent, respectable man around 
New York and accusin' him of makin' free with 
suspicious women, the feller ye was really after 
was out here robbin' th' treasure chest. And 
now I reckon we'll hev t' wait till he gits hard 
up agin afore he comes back.” 

[ 125 ] 


The detective looked crestfallen. As he seemed 
sorely in need of rest I suggested that he spend 
the remainder of the night with us, — an offer 
which he contemplated for some moments before 
deciding to accept it. Whereupon I ordered 
Chops to prepare a room for him, and soon after¬ 
ward he retired to compose his shattered nerves. 
After seeing that my other two guests were in¬ 
stalled for the night I went to my own chamber, 
debating whether I had acted wisely, or if I 
should have had the man arrested as a trespasser 
and placed under guard till morning. 

While I was not especially enthusiastic over the 
prospect of finding any missing treasure in the 
house, it was nevertheless unbelievable that any¬ 
one would trouble himself to invade the premises 
by night without some strong motive; for it was 
not the sort of place that any right-minded person 
would be apt to break into in the dead of night for 
the sake of pure innocent amusement. Having 
bought the place for a private home, it was an¬ 
noying, to say the least, to have it turned into a 
bone of contention for thieves and detectives to 
squabble over, more especially since I was neither 
in the confidence nor the favor of either side. As 
a non-participant who finds himself in the midst 
of a brawl sometimes becomes the target of flying 
missiles, I seemed to be on the receiving end — or 

[ 126 ] 


rather in the center — of a combat wherein I had 
no interest or active part, except that of defend¬ 
ing myself and my property. 

There was, however, one mildly compensatory 
thought: the local reputation of the house as the 
haunt of evil spirits and bad luck might now 
become subordinate to the idea that it contained 
a great hidden treasure, though thus far the seek¬ 
ers after the alleged treasure had proved far 
more troublesome than the vengeful spirits of the 
departed. 

There is scarcely anything more alluring than 
the quest of Hidden Treasure; there is nothing 
that will more quickly and securely establish the 
fame of a given spot than a generally accredited 
and widely circulated report that some notorious 
thief or pirate has made it the secret repository 
of his plunder; and there is nothing more im¬ 
probable than that anyone will ever discover that 
hidden plunder, except in story-books. The tradi¬ 
tional undiscovered treasures of Captain Kidd are 
as widely famed as any one of the seven wonders 
of the world; and even at this late day a thousand 
men with picks and shovels could be mustered by 
a fictitious rumor that the vicinity of that famous 
pirate’s cache had been found. 

Dumas, Stevenson and many other popular 
writers have held millions of readers spellbound 

[ 127 ] 


with this sort of enticing bait dangling before 
their hungry eyes while they hugged the trail of 
the narrators which led them over land and sea, 
through fire and blood, through strange lands, 
and places infested with brigands and hostile 
tribes, in search of some vast treasure, either real 
or imaginary. The mere mention of “Hidden 
Treasure” operates like magic on the human mind, 
and there is scarcely an individual so nonchalant 
as not to be impressed by the spirit of adventure 
or acquisitiveness in either searching for it or 
reading about it. 

But notwithstanding all this, I did not grow 
excited over the idea that there was any booty 
hidden in my house; or, if there were, of being 
the custodian of something that would make me 
the cynosure of all eyes, and the victim of pred¬ 
atory individuals who contended over its posses¬ 
sion. 

And yet, in a way, the excitement fascinated 
me and lured me on, as one will sometimes become 
enchanted and gradually drawn into a game of 
chance or some complication without being able 
to explain how he could have been so buffle- 
headed. I had always had a morbid curiosity to 
see the inside of a haunted house; I had always 
been fond of mysteries; and although I cherished 
an inborn antipathy for all sorts of ancient ruins, 

[ 128 ] 


I had always longed for some old run-down farm, 
— a place with a history, — isolated, yet in the 
center of civilization. This estate bade fair to 
fulfill all these strange predilections. 

On the morning following the exciting mid¬ 
night episode we were treated to another surprise. 
When Chops went up to call the detective for 
breakfast he found that the guest had flown, 
leaving his bed undisturbed. We searched the 
house, and finding no trace of him we were un¬ 
decided whether he had found the securities and 
made away with them, or if he had taken his un¬ 
ceremonious departure because he was afraid to 
remain in the house over night. At all events 
the mauling he had received from Chops must 
have been deeply humiliating, and it was not 
strange that he should prefer not to face us all 
in the morning. Higby’s final conclusion was 
that no honest man—not even a detective — 
would sneak into a private house through the 
cellar at night; and that if the man had not been 
a crook he would have asked permission to search 
the premises for the hidden loot. He declared 
that he had lain awake nearly all night, and that 
the man, whoever he was, must have made his 
exit quietly without stopping to make any search, 
for otherwise he would have heard him moving 
about. Both Henneker and Higby felt sure that 

[ 129 ] 


the plunder was still in the house, and they beg¬ 
ged permission to remain and aid me in searching 
for it, to which I cheerfully consented. Hitherto 
I had been so continuously engaged that I had 
scarcely seen the inside of the premises, except 
such rooms as we used daily, and the talk about 
apparitions, traditions, thieves and treasure all 
combined to arouse my interest in a more thor¬ 
ough investigation. I therefore went about the 
task with some degree of anticipation, even 
though it was tinged with skepticism. 

We formed two parties, — Chops and I going 
to the attic, while Higby and the constable began 
in the cellar. While rummaging about among 
the debris on the attic floor we came upon a pile 
of mixed junk in a back corner, from which Chops 
dragged out an old oak chest bedecked with stout 
iron bands and massive hinges. The lid was 
securely fastened down with a great hand- 
wrought hasp, and locked with a strong padlock. 
It looked like a relic of ancient times, — of the 
days of pirates. We had evidently found the 
treasure-chest with but little effort, and I hurried 
down stairs to get an axe and to notify the other 
men. We all rushed back, armed with axe and 
hammer, and amid great excitement and expec¬ 
tation we pounded off the lock. While the other 
three stood gazing hungry-eyed I raised the lid. 

[ 130 ] 


On top there were a lot of old letters and mis¬ 
cellaneous litter, probably the personal relics of 
some former occupant. 

“Dig down! Dig down!" cried Higby. “Them 
things on top is only to fool ye!" And so saying 
he caught up the chest and dumped its entire con¬ 
tents out on the floor. We stood in speechless 
despair, viewing the heterogeneous heap. 

With a grunt of disgust Higby kicked his boot 
deep into the pile. “Wall, if this is the treasure-box 
thet fool detective was a-huntin' fer, I'd jest as 
lief he'd hev found it hisself 'stead of us. Thet's 
jest like the dreams I uster hev of findin' a big 
lot of money, then wakin' up afore I could git 
my hands on it. Gosh! thar aint much use of a 
feller even dreamin’ he can get somethin' fer 
nothin'." 

From the attic we descended to the floor below, 
where we explored all the closets, sounded the 
walls and floors, and probed every crack and 
crevice to see if it contained some secret spring 
that might unlock some invisible aperture. The 
walls were very thick, — the thickest I had ever 
seen in a house of its size,—but this fact gave no 
encouraging clue, for they seemed solid and im¬ 
penetrable. 

On the ground floor the same operation was 
repeated. Henneker had once seen a play where- 

[ 131 ] 


in the villain, by touching a secret spring behind 
a picture, disclosed an opening in the panelled 
wall where the family jewels were secreted; and 
declaring there must be some such hiding place 
here, he went about the rooms rubbing and tap¬ 
ping the wall behind every hanging. But as far 
as we could discover, the builders of this house 
had omitted the proverbial trap doors and sliding 
panels. Henneker fumbled about the fireplace, 
tugged at the mantel to see if it were loose, tested 
all the stones in the hearth, and even crawled into 
the opening and stood up inside the great chim¬ 
ney, scratching about the sooty walls in quest of 
some secret crypt. Meantime Higby clambered 
into the big old-fashioned brick oven in the wall 
beside the fireplace and felt it all over carefully. 

“Taint no use,” he called from within; “tlT 
aint no place in here whar he could hev hid a ten 
cent piece. He must hev hid th’ stuff somewhar 
in th’ barn, er else dug a hole and buried it.” 

With flagging hopes we lit lamps and went to 
the cellar, where we groped about through a 
veritable haze of cobwebs and a century’s accu¬ 
mulation of rubbish. I was examining a great 
crevice in one of the foundation walls when Chops 
called from a far corner, where he had found an 
old well, covered with heavy planks. All hands 
promptly joined him, and with eager, inquisitive 

[ 132 ] 


eyes we stared into the dark hole. The light 
from Chops’ lamp which he projected down into 
the opening revealed the top of a ladder resting 
against the stone casing a little below the curbing, 
which had been torn down, or tumbled in, until 
it came down nearly even with the floor. 

“Looks like th’ ladder down t’ Hades,” re¬ 
marked Higby. “What d’ye reckon’s down 
thar ?” 

“Why, th’ money, of course,” said Henneker. 
“Can’t ye see th’ ladder whar he took it down?” 

“I reckon ye must be right,” Higby assented 
cheerfully — “They don’t ginerally use ladders 
in wells t’ get th’ water out; so it must a been put 
thar t’ take somethin’ down. Gad! I’d like t’ 
know how deep it is, and what’s in thar!” 

The act of going down and exploring the well’s 
uncertain depths in order to gratify Higby’s curi¬ 
osity, or even my own, did not appear inviting 
to me. Presumably the lower end of the ladder 
was grounded, though it might be resting on a 
projecting stone in the opposite wall,— and far 
up from the bottom. But for Chops, who was 
long accustomed to the forbidding aspect of cav¬ 
ernous tombs and subterranean recesses, a thing 
so insignificant as a mere well had no terrors. 
Without further ado he took his small brass lamp, 
let himself over the brink, and after testing the 

[ 133 ] 


ladder to see that it was strong, and resting on 
a firm foundation, he made his way cautiously 
down. He had not proceeded far when his light 
went out. 

“The damp! The damp!” shouted Higby in 
alarm. “Better let down a chicken er somethin’ 
t’ see if the air is poisoned.” 

But Chops undauntedly continued his descent 
until he reached the bottom, — a depth of perhaps 
ten or twelve feet, — whence he called back that 
the well was dry, but there was a soft, ashy sub¬ 
stance beneath his feet. In kicking about to see 
what it was his foot struck an object, which he 
secured and brought up to the light. It proved 
to be the lower leg bone of a human body, with 
part of the skeleton of a foot adhering to it by the 
withered tendons; and the clots of lime with 
which it was covered showed that it had been 
buried in quick-lime. 

“Wall,” observed Higby, “thet accounts fer at 
least one poor cuss thet disappeared from here, 
and thar’s no knowin’ but what th’ may be a 
dozen more of ’em down thar with ’im. Nothin’ 
like havin’ yer graveyard handy t’ yer back door, 
is they?” 

This gruesome discovery precluded all thought 
of further search, and I wouldn’t even allow 
Chops to return into the well to make a closer 

[ 134 ] 


investigation. It sickened me of the whole trans¬ 
action and made me inclined to quit the house 
and leave it to the spirits, the thieves, the detec¬ 
tive, or anyone else who might find it a congenial 
abiding-place. We made our way upstairs, and 
I was glad to escape from the foul-aired dungeon 
over which the house stood. I imagined that the 
very cracks in the wide-planked floors were reek¬ 
ing with the loathsome vapors from below, and 
that every floor and every wall and every room 
was infected. With a view perhaps of consoling 
me, Higby contributed a thought in his charac¬ 
teristically naive way, — 

“Ye know I tole ye once that I wouldn’t mind 
sleepin’ all night in a graveyard; but thet aint 
sayin’ thet I’d feel easy a-livin’ night and day 
right over a whole bunch of dead corpses thet 
wasn’t even respectably buried.” 

The only satisfactory solution I could think of 
was to burn the building down. It would at least 
purify the air, and smoke out the spirits, if there 
were any. The house and its setting reminded 
me of a hornet’s nest that I once found in my 
favorite apple tree, where the first big yellow 
apples ripened late in August. Boy like, I was 
sitting with my back against the tree, munching 
a juicy apple, when along came a peevish, dis¬ 
gruntled hornet and stung me under the eye; 

[ 135 ] 


then as I scampered away, another — though it 
felt like the same one—followed in hot pursuit 
and caught me on the back of my neck. For days 
my right eye was swollen shut, and for a day or 
so at odd times I circled about that apple tree at 
a safe distance and squinted resentfully at the big 
ball of a nest with my one eye. Finally I attacked 
it one night with a torch, and after that, having 
no nest to defend, the surviving hornets flew 
away. 

I had hoped to make this estate into a comfort¬ 
able country home where I could enjoy the quiet 
retirement of rural life; where I could entertain 
my friends from the city; where I could breathe 
the sweet, fresh mountain air, and at night view 
the stars of heaven without having to look 
through a fog of dust and smoke. Quiet retirement 
and sweet fresh air indeed! And as for the stars 
at night, I hadn’t so much as thought of them. I 
doubt if a star had even peeped at the house since 
I took it. As for inviting my friends out, I 
couldn’t think of one, or even of an enemy, that 
I wanted to punish by asking him to share the 
festering atmosphere of such a place. It was 
fortunate that Minnie Sherwin had not come out. 
A woman with iron nerves would have succumbed 
under the stress of the past two days. This 
woman would have taken me for a jester, in as- 

[ 136 ] 


suring her that I had a cook and gardener, and 
that she would find the house cheery and habitable. 

When the two visitors had hitched up their 
horses and were about to leave, Higby glanced 
about at the forlorn-looking yard, then with a 
meditative scrutiny of the house — 

“Wouldn’t ye like t’ bring yer man and come 
down to my house fer a spell? We aint rich, but 
ye’re welcome to th’ best we’ve got. It might 
give ye a chance t’ collect yer thoughts and decide 
what ye want t’ do. My ole woman is a fine cook, 
and she’ll be as tickled as I’ll be to hev ye. Better 
make up yer mind t’ come; — I hate t’ go off an’ 
leave ye here alone in thet house.” 

His whole-souled generosity affected me deep¬ 
ly, and although every impulse of comfort and 
discretion prompted me to accept his offer, some 
strange obstinacy in me resisted the appeal of 
better judgment and I decided to stick it out a 
while longer. I thanked him, and said I would 
let him know later if I decided to accept his kind 
offer. 

“All right, you know best,” he concluded, “and 
when ye git ready t’ come, ye know whar I live. 
Good-bye, and good luck.” And with a flourish 
of his hand he jumped into his buggy and was 
gone. I stood watching him until he reached the 
woods at the lower edge of the field, and when he 

[ 137 ] 


had disappeared from view a feeling of loneliness 
came over me which made me almost regret my 
refusal of his offer. 

For some time I strolled about the yard and 
premises, endeavoring to decide if it were worth 
while keeping the place and making the needed 
improvements here and there. The few budding 
flowers were struggling valiantly against the more 
hardy, smothering weeds, the clusters of old rose 
bushes were cluttered with leaves and dead stalks, 
the shrubbery wanted trimming, the dilapidated 
walls wanted rebuilding, and as one passed along 
everything which caught the eye seemed to appeal 
for help, — reminding one of the passageway lead¬ 
ing down to the “Wailing Place” in Jerusalem, 
where the walls are lined with the most motley 
horde of beggars to be seen anywhere in the world, 
all mumbling their woes and supplicating with out¬ 
stretched palms. But contending against one’s 
natural impulse to repair the ravages that time 
and neglect had wrought in this place there was 
the omnipresent feeling that no amount of ex¬ 
terior improvement could alter the repellent at¬ 
mosphere inside the house, which stood there like 
a great blemish on the face of Nature. After 
wandering disconsolately about the grounds, de¬ 
bating the question of whether or not to abandon 
it all and go back to town, I returned to the house 

[ 138 ] 


and found that Chops had thrown open every 
window and door to air the place out. 

I spent the afternoon weeding out the old peony 
beds, trimming shrubbery and trying to tidy up 
the yard, but everything was so ragged and for¬ 
lorn that rejuvenation seemed hopeless, and I de¬ 
cided that nothing short of the skill of an experi¬ 
enced landscape gardener could make anything 
out of the chaos. When night came I was tired 
and sleepy enough not to be much concerned with 
the morning's revelations, and while Chops was 
busy with the evening meal I sat dozing before 
the fire, when suddenly I was aroused by a tap¬ 
ping at the front door. I sprang up, threw it 
open, and there in the twilight stood Minnie Sher- 
win. 


[ 139 ] 


CHAPTER VIII 


“Miss Sherwin,” I said, when she had removed 
her wraps and seated herself, “I was never more 
pleased to see anyone in my life. ,, 

She stared at me, seemingly surprised at my 
remark. 

“You overwhelm me,” she managed presently 
to say. “I am far from deserving your kindness. 
I was even fearful lest you might turn me away 
from your door and refuse to see me at all. My 
first thought was to write or telegraph you, but 
the nature of my visit is so important, and its 
urgency is so great, on account of imminent 
danger, that I thought best to come in person.” 

It was now my turn to show surprise, which I 
probably did, in wondering what impending storm 
of misfortune was about to burst upon me. 

“All right, fire away,” I said resignedly; “noth¬ 
ing can shock me after all that has happened — ” 

“Why, has anything happened?” she broke in 
excitedly. “Tell me, please, has anything hap¬ 
pened yet?” 

“Well, I don’t know precisely what your idea 

[ ho ] 


of a happening is, but I’ve been kept pretty busy 
since I saw you/’ 

“Has anyone been here?” 

“Yes, it seems everyone’s been here; and more¬ 
over, everyone has gone, including the cook and 
the gardener. I am left all alone with my Egyp¬ 
tian man-servant. But let’s get out of the realm 
of enigmas, and down to facts. —What’s already 
happened is past. Tell me what causes your 
alarm. Is anything dreadful threatening?” 

“ I came to warn you — ” she checked herself, 
and lowering her voice,— “Well, I came to tell 
you that your house is about to be entered, and 
to be on your guard for your personal safety.” 

“Entered by whom — a detective, or a thief ? 
We’ve been visited by both in the past forty- 
eight hours.” 

“Then you have not been harmed ?” 

“No, — or that is, I’ve been considerably 
shaken up, but I’ve suffered no personal injury.” 

“Thank God for that,” she said fervently. “I 
prayed that I might reach you before any harm 
came to you. I’m so glad to find you uninjured. 
It all seems so terrible; but I should have known 
that a man with your kind and generous heart 
must be under the protection of Divine Prov¬ 
idence. You never knew how near I came to 
being the innocent cause of your— well, never 

[ 141 ] 


mind; you escaped safely — that's the important 
thing. I'll be frank with you to this extent, if 
you will excuse me from further explanation, 
which would be painful to me: a certain man who 
came and took me away shortly after you left, 
learned that you paid my board bill, and that I 
engaged to come out here. He became enraged 
and threatened to— yes, he threatened to kill 
you. He made such a scene that I was obliged 
to leave the house with him, partly to avoid being 
put out for disturbing the household, but prin¬ 
cipally to keep my eyes on him till I could warn 
you. That afternoon he left me at a hotel, saying 
he would return in an hour. I waited until near¬ 
ly dark and fearing he might have followed you 
out here and attacked you on the way out from 
the village, I became almost frantic. But not 
having a penny, I could do nothing. I remem¬ 
bered, too, that you were taking the four o'clock 
train, and it was then too late to warn you, even 
if I had had carfare to take the next train. I 
stayed over night at the hotel, and in the morning 
I had the newspapers sent up and looked through 
them to see if any tragedy was reported. I re¬ 
mained in my room until this morning, waiting, 
waiting, waiting! but he did not return. At last 
I could stand it no longer, so I borrowed five dol¬ 
lars from the hotel clerk, and left my trunk and 

[ 142 ] 


clothes as security for that and the hotel bill. See¬ 
ing no account in the papers, I suspected that by 
some favor of good fortune you had remained in 
town, or for some other reason he had been pre¬ 
vented from getting at you, so I hurried out here. 
Again I thank God that He protected you from 
injury through the folly of one whom you be¬ 
friended.” 

At this astounding disclosure I listened aghast. 
By the merest chance I had changed my plans and 
remained in town over night; and by that happy 
change of plans I had doubtless saved my life, 
for it was on that very night that Chops heard 
someone enter the outside cellar door. But I 
was puzzled to know which was my would-be 
destroyer, the unknown man who visited the 
house on the night of my absence, or the self- 
professed detective who came next day. The detec¬ 
tive knew I had called on Minnie Sherwin. Had he 
been watching for the man who came and took her 
away, and who came out to “get” me that night? 
Or was it the detective himself that came out the 
first night and, finding me away, waited over till 
the next day? On his first arrival he had seemed 
altogether too evil-eyed for one who held no per¬ 
sonal grudge against me — for one who was only 
employing an innocent, though crafty, device for 
getting me away. 


1143 ] 


Another inexplicable thing was the peculiar and 
uneasy attitude of Chops on the night of my re¬ 
turn from the city; and his enigmatical remark 
that others might die in the house — but not me. 
At the time, I attributed it to the disturbance 
caused by the gardener and his wife; but later 
it proved to be something far more deep-seated. 
If he were not prompted by some inspired prem¬ 
onition, some psychological phenomena, or some 
providential warning, how could he have sus¬ 
pected that the man was bent on taking my life; 
that he would return on the second night, and 
not returning then, he would come back on the 
third night? At first I had ascribed Chops’ 
watchfulness to some nonsensical native super¬ 
stition that a thief who had been frightened away 
would surely come back next night, or something 
like that; but of course I had no idea that this 
fanaticism would apply to malefactors in any 
other country than his own. The second night, 
however, his persistence had impressed me a lit¬ 
tle more, and so I arranged for Higby and the 
constable to remain in the house, in some degree 
as a precautionary measure, and also as a means 
of demonstrating to Chops my appreciation of his 
vigilance. 

At any rate, I was now convinced that since 
Chops had known nothing whatever of the sup- 

[ 144 ] 


posed treasure; and knowing there was nothing 
in the house worth stealing, he must have had an 
instinctive foreboding of some terrible calamity 
that threatened my person, else he would not have 
posted himself in that damp, nauseous cellar for 
hours at a time, on two consecutive nights, with¬ 
out a pillow or chair or anything to rest himself 
on. Miss Sherwin’s story therefore convinced 
me that Chops had made good his promise to me 
in Cairo, that he would be the faithful guardian of 
my person; for he had taken the precaution to go 
into the cellar — unarmed with either knife or 
pistol, so far as I knew—to intercept my would- 
be assassin before he could get within pistol shot 
of me. The compliment that I had paid him 
about his descent from some intrepid ancestor, 
though intended as unadulterated blarney, proved 
to be better deserved than I had imagined. 

When Miss Sherwin had finished her story I 
abstractedly turned these considerations over in 
my mind, and from occasional side glances I saw 
that she showed much uneasiness, and she ap¬ 
peared to be deeply interested in my thoughts. — 

‘Tm so sorry to be the bearer of such unpleas¬ 
ant news,” she said at length; “but it seemed the 
only way of averting a tragedy.” 

“Well, I suppose it’s all in keeping with my 
nonsensical act in buying this foolish house. But 

[ 145 ] 


still I can’t for the life of me think what I’ve 
done to merit so much of the devil’s ire of late. 
He seems to have cornered me — or rather he’s 
allowed me to corner myself—here in what ap¬ 
pears to be his own den. Strange that a fellow 
looking for a quiet secluded retreat should fall 
into such a snare as this! However, misfortunes 
sometimes have their amenities, especially when 
they enable us to guard against far greater 
dangers; and oftentimes they make friends for us 
in the most curious and unforeseen ways. For 
instance, though I seem to have become a victim 
of circumstances, as a result I have discovered 
three trustworthy friends, among whom I am 
happy to count yourself.” 

“You are much too generous,” she hastened to 
disclaim; “I have been the cause of all your trou¬ 
ble. I wonder that you can treat me civilly.” 

“A woman who will pledge her trunk and 
clothes to come out here and warn a stranger of 
threatening danger is deserving of more than 
mere civility.” 

“It was the least I could do after your kindness 
to me,” she said modestly. 

“Nevertheless, it is an expression of gratitude 
such as one seldom meets with; and you have 
more than justified my confidence in you.” 

Throughout a lengthy recital of Chops’ strange 
[ 146 ] 


forebodings, and what he had done in my defence, 
she sat as one entranced, except that she occa¬ 
sionally clenched her hands, digging her sharp 
pointed nails into her palms, until I thought they 
would bleed. I told her of our night vigil, and 
how Chops had captured the man in the cellar. 

“Good!” she exclaimed with snapping eyes; 
‘Tm glad of it!” But I couldn’t tell whether her 
gratification was in part due to the fact that Chops 
had conquered the detective because he was pur¬ 
suing the other man, or if the detective was in 
fact the other man, and was pursuing me. When 
I told her about the gardener and his wife — 
without, however, mentioning the red ink poem — 
she remarked that such superstition is usually 
born of ignorance, — a shortcoming with which 
she had no patience. 

“Then under the circumstances would you care 
to accept the position I offered you — that is, as 
soon as I can procure a cook?” 

“If you think I will not prove to be a trouble¬ 
some ill-omen, I am at your service whenever you 
choose to have me. But really I fear I shall be 
a harbinger of bad luck.” I laughed at her 
premonition, but she insisted that she had serious 
misgivings. 

“Perhaps you are not aware that you have 
come to the very home of Bad Luck. This house 

[ 147 ] 


enjoys the well-earned distinction of being a 
veritable incubator of crime and ill luck; so a lit¬ 
tle more or less will not matter. ,, I was afraid 
to go more into detail, lest she take fright and 
leave. 

“But if I were to be the means of bringing 
destruction upon you, I should never forgive my¬ 
self/' she persisted. “I hope you do not under¬ 
estimate your danger." 

I attempted to reassure her. — 

“I am more or less of a fatalist, in that I believe 
what is to be, will be; and while I wouldn't be so 
rash as to put my head in a halter knowingly, 
or otherwise tempt or defy the fates, I go on the 
principle of sticking to my honest convictions and 
doing what I consider to be my duty, both to my¬ 
self and to others. Whatever happens, I shall 
at least know that I could not conscientiously 
have done less in this instance." 

Excusing myself I went to notify Chops that 
my caller would remain for dinner; and return¬ 
ing to Minnie I said that there being no train to 
the city she had best remain over night; and it 
she felt she could endure the loneliness of the 
place until I could procure some new kitchen help 
I would send for her trunk in the morning. She 
anticipated my thought in suggesting that some 
trusty person be commissioned to get the trunk 
[ 148 ] 


and deliver it to the Express Company, so that its 
destination might not be easily traced; but I 
eased her mind on that score by saying that my 
attorney would discreetly attend to all such de¬ 
tails. 

This thought in turn fathered another, the im¬ 
portance of which I had failed to weigh with due 
deliberation. —If the man, whoever he was, had 
been so distracted because I had merely paid the 
woman's board, what drastic measures would he 
resort to when he learned that I was harboring 
her under my own roof ? He was unquestionably a 
dangerous character — his actions had testified 
as much. Whether he was incited by jealousy 
or by fear of detection did not matter materially. 
In the one case he was insanely revengeful, in 
the other he was perilously desperate; in either 
case he was equally dangerous. 

But with what reckless disregard of prudence 
will men gamble, with their lives at stake, when 
the fate of an attractive woman is involved! An 
instinctive chivalry asserts itself in the being of 
every red-blooded man the instant he sees one of 
the opposite sex in danger or distress, and it was 
doubtless this inborn trait that now aroused my 
mulish determination to protect Minnie Sherwin 
against hunger, and against any individual who 
sought to impose upon her. 

[ 149 ] 


Regardless of the relationship existing between 
this woman and the man concerned, her desperate 
plight showed that he had not made even the scanti¬ 
est provision for her needs, and dog-in-the-man¬ 
ger-like, he rebelled at the thought of anyone else 
relieving her distress. The more I thought of it, the 
more I bristled with contempt, and the less I feared 
his malignity, although I felt certain it was some¬ 
thing to be reckoned with sooner or later; and I 
doubted not that his revenge would take some 
cowardly form, probably from an ambuscade, or 
a villainous attack in the dark. 

At dinner Miss Sherwin ate sparingly. Her 
manner was that of one who had been reared in 
an atmosphere of refinement, and our desultory 
conversation was mostly on subjects not imme¬ 
diately concerned with our own affairs or our 
relative positions. We discussed politics, litera¬ 
ture, art and even religion, — in all of which, 
especially the latter, she displayed a versatility 
that greatly mystified me. It all seemed so 
anomalous, and at variance with the squalid con¬ 
ditions in which I had found her. But I could 
not, by the most adroit manoeuvres, inveigle her 
into saying anything about herself or where she 
was educated. Time and again I scrutinized her 
features in a vain effort to penetrate the mask 
behind which she kept her life tragedy so well 

[ 150 ] 


concealed. It was a strange, though by no means 
strained, situation. At length as we quitted the 
dining room she turned and looked at me square- 
ly.— 

“Mr. Fletcher, at the place where I worked 
they used to call me by my first name, — and 
would you mind calling me just plain Minnie? I 
scarcely know any other name." 

It seemed odd, just after our conversation, to 
hear her speak of the place where she had worked, 
and again I wondered what strange prank for¬ 
tune had been playing with her. An almost un¬ 
controllable impulse seized me to ask whether it 
was Miss Minnie or Mrs. Minnie, but I smothered 
it. 

“Just as you please/' I said. “That will be 
shorter and less ceremonious than Mrs. Sherwin, 
or even Miss Sherwin." She smiled pleasantly, 
perhaps regarding the remark as ingeniously in¬ 
quisitive, but her smile soon faded and her ex¬ 
pression became sad. — 

“Oh I hope you don't misinterpret my reticence. 
I value your kindness — I really do. Please don't 
think me ungrateful because appearances are all 
against me. It's harder for me than you think." 

“Minnie," I said, addressing her by this name 
for the first time, — “Minnie, I apologize for that 
unkind remark. My honest desire is to help you 

[ 151 ] 


— not to pry into your personal affairs, however 
much they may excite my curiosity. But my 
Egyptian servant — it would hardly be dignified 
for him to address you by your first name. Sup¬ 
pose I have him call you Miss Sherwin, seeing 
that's the name you went by at the boarding 
house." ' 

“That will be quite agreeable," she decided, 
without hesitation. 

That night before retiring I resolved to keep 
the house, and to remain there, at least until I 
unravelled some of the riddles with which the 
situation was beset. 

When Chops had finished his work I called him 
to my room. — “Chops, I have employed Miss 
Sherwin to come here as my housekeeper. She 
is a good woman, but she has been imposed upon 
by a scoundrel of a man; and because I befriended 
her that man came here to kill me. He may have 
been the one who came while I was away; or it 
may have been the detective you captured in the 
cellar; but whichever it was, he is likely to return 
when he finds she is here. You understand?" 

He nodded comprehendingly, with his cus¬ 
tomary obeisance, and as he turned to enter his 
room we heard a loud pounding noise which 
seemed to come from the downstairs front door. 
Chops gazed at me in blank astonishment. It was 

[ 152 ] 


an unseasonable hour for any friendly visitor 
in that isolated region, and yet an unfriendly 
person would hardly announce his presence in 
that noisy manner. We both ventured down, and 
just as I was turning the key in the lock, Minnie 
called from the top of the stairs, — “Don’t — 
please don’t open the door — it’s dangerous!” Un¬ 
mindful of the warning, Chops jerked the door 
half open and darted out through the aperture. 
On the front doorstep stood Higby, gasping with 
breathless excitement. 

“The detective’s been murdered!” he an¬ 
nounced. “They found him dead in the road 
early this morning, with a big bullet hole in his 
back. And I come to tell ye ye’d better git away 
from this house as quick as the Lord’ll let ye. 
It don’t make no odds whether thet feller was a 
real detective er a crook; whoever it was thet 
killed him is still loose in these woods, and like 
as not it’ll be your turn next. I’ve warned ye all 
along thet thet crazy Poet is still hereabouts.” 

He came in and after discussing matters pro 
and con for half an hour or more we parted with 
the understanding that I would come to some 
decision in the morning. 

I went up to my bedroom and after locking 
the door I went to the open window, drew the 
curtain aside and stood for some moments looking 

[ 153 1 


out into the moonlit night. The stillness was 
profound except for the medley of the frogs and 
the occasional hoot of a distant owl. My eyes 
wandered abstractedly across the wide field and 
far down the slope into the peaceful valley below. 
The air was laden with the fragrance of wild- 
flowers and Nature in all its virgin wildness ap¬ 
peared to be basking in the moonlight. The 
whole outside world seemed in a state of tran¬ 
quility, and the turbulence of my own household, 
beset with a ghostly atmosphere within and be¬ 
sieged with treacherous villains from without, 
stood out in sharp contrast against this serene 
perspective, this beautiful setting that seemed as 
remote from human turmoil as the moon was 
distant from the earth. At length I undressed, 
turned out the light and went to bed, little dream¬ 
ing of the tragedy that was about to be enacted. 

Sometime after midnight I was awakened by 
a rap at my door. I got up and while lighting 
the lamp the knock was gently repeated. “Who’s 
there?” I called, but no answer came from with¬ 
out. Apprehensive lest Minnie had become 
frightened at some strange sound I hurriedly 
slipped on my robe and turned the key. The 
door was instantly pushed open and I started 
back at the sight of a masked man who thrust his 
arm through the doorway. There was a blinding 

[ 154 ] 


flash, a deafening report, then I felt myself reel¬ 
ing, and just as darkness seemed to close in upon 
the scene, in my last gleam of consciousness I 
saw the dark form of Chops spring from behind 
and fasten his fingers about the man's throat. 


[ 155 ] 


CHAPTER IX 


It is said that the anticipatory suspense pre¬ 
ceding the process of being hanged or shot is 
more terrible than the act itself. However that 
may be, in my first conscious moments I felt much 
relieved that the suspense was over. When I 
opened my eyes I was lying in bed, the anxious 
faces of Chops and Minnie bending over me. In 
one hand Chops held a brandy bottle and in the 
other a half-filled glass; while Minnie had ev¬ 
idently been plying my face with a wet towel, 
which she still held clutched in her hand. She 
was the first to speak. — 

“Oh Fm so glad! I thought you would never 
revive.” 

“Chops, where is the man? You didn’t kill 
him?” 

“He is not dead. Because his life belongs to 
you, I did not take it. But he will never use a 
gun or knife again,” he said, drawing his fore¬ 
finger sharply across the under tendons of his 
wrist. Minnie turned her head away for a mo¬ 
ment, and held the towel to her face. 

[ 156 ] 


“Poor girl! My sympathies go out to you, but 
it couldn’t be helped. Chops, you take the horse 
and run down to Mr. Higby’s house, and have 
him go for the nearest surgeon.” 

“Mayn’t I go for help?” cried Minnie; “are 
you not afraid to stay here alone with only me 
and—” 

“Not in the least,” I interrupted. Chops was 
already on his way downstairs. Just then a grip¬ 
ing pain caught me in the left shoulder. I tried 
to raise my left arm, but it lay limp and useless 
across my chest, as void of feeling as if it hadn’t 
belonged to me. Minnie sat down by the bedside 
and occasionally moistened my face with cold 
water. 

“I wish I could do something—I seem so help¬ 
less,” she said mournfully. 

“The man — is he suffering?” I asked. 

“I don’t know. Your man bound him fast and 
locked him in the next room.” 

“Will you please take those keys from the top 
drawer of my chiffonier and find one that fits 
the door. Go in and look to see if his hands are 
rendered useless; if so, take the knife from my 
trousers pocket and cut his bonds loose, on the 
proviso that he gives you his word not to leave 
his room until the doctor arrives.” She stared 
at me, dumfounded.— 

[ 157 ] 


“Are you really in earnest? Do you wish me 
to release your murderer ?” 

“Yes, I mean exactly what I say. If Chops 
has severed the tendons of his wrists, he will 
suffer quite enough without being tied.” 

“And if he should run away—escape?” 

“He will not run far in that condition. Tell 
him the physician will dress his wounds when he 
comes, and that he will be far safer and more 
comfortable here than running about the country, 
where he would surely be caught, or else die of 
pain and hunger. Please do as I say, — and you 
had better light the lamp in his room.” 

She got up reluctantly and began fumbling 
about the drawer for the keys. 

“I see only one here,” she said — “Don’t you 
suppose he has taken them with him?” (I was 
sure there were at least four). 

“Try that one.” 

She went to the door, inserted the key, turned 
it, and cautiously pushing the door open, she en¬ 
tered the room. I heard her tell the man that 
Mr. Fletcher had ordered her to unfasten his 
bonds, provided he would promise not to leave 
the room. There was no answer. 

“Better take the lamp,” I called. “He may be 
unconscious; he may be dead!” 

When she re-entered the room with the light 

[ 158 ] 


a loud piercing shriek rang out, followed by a 
groan from the fettered man. She flew back 
into the room where I lay, — her eyes aglare, her 
face colorless. — 

“Oh, it isn’t who I thought it was at all! 
It’s — it’s — Oh it’s too terrible — I can’t tell 
you!” 

“But cut the man loose anyway, whoever he is, 
if you think he’s safe.” 

“Oh, he isn’t safe at all — I wouldn’t trust him 
if his legs and arms were all cut off! He’s a 
terrible man! Don’t—please don’t ask me to 
touch him — I’d rather touch a snake!” 

“But if it were the devil himself I’d hate to see 
him tied and slowly bleeding to death.” 

“But he’s worse — he’s much worse than any 
devil. He is the prince of devils!” 

“I take exception. You insult His Satanic 
Majesty, who is no coward; he fights in the open.” 

I was growing faint under the excitement, and 
not having the strength to argue the matter fur¬ 
ther I lay back on the pillow and closed my eyes. 
Presently I felt a cool, wet towel on my face. 

“I knew this would happen,” she soothed in a 
low tone. “You are over-wrought—you have 
enough, to bear your own sufferings, without 
worrying about others.” 

Later I was aroused from a state of lethargy by 

[ 159 ] 


the pounding hoof beats of a galloping horse that 
came up and stopped at the gate, and in what 
seemed an incredibly short time Chops appeared 
in the doorway. When he saw his bedroom door 
open his mouth fell wide agape; he stared, wide- 
eyed, first at me, then at Minnie, then back at 
the door. 

^It’s all right, Chops; we only wanted to give 
him a little air. I guess you might loosen his 
shackles now that you are here to watch him. 
Who is he, Chops — anyone you’ve ever seen be¬ 
fore ?” 

“No, I never saw him before. He fought like 
a lion; I nearly had to kill him. ,, 

Chops entered his room and we could hear the 
man groan while the rope was being untied. 
During this operation Minnie covered her ears 
with her hands and gazed terror-stricken at the 
doorway. 

Half an hour later Higby arrived with the 
doctor, and they were soon followed by Henneker 
who came thumping and puffing up the stairs. 
And he in turn was soon followed by two other 
neighbors who came in noisy haste to see what 
had happened. The whole neighborhood seemed 
to have been awakened, for inside of an hour 
there were no less than a dozen people in the 
house. I could hear them shuffling about in the 

[ 160 ] 


hallway and babbling excitedly while the doctor 
was busy with my wound. 

“Hello—what’s all this?” he asked. — “Looks 
like a great plaster of cobwebs!” 

“It is,” said Chops, “I got them in the cellar. 
They stop bleeding.” 

“Must have shot you with a cannon,” commented 
the doctor, shaking his head dubiously. “It went 
clear through and out the other side. Good thing 
he didn’t hit you two inches lower.” 

Higby stood gazing anxiously over the doctor’s 
shoulder, his eyes glistening with moisture. His 
only comment, which he must have repeated at 
least twenty times, was — “It’s a damn shame!” 
Minnie stood by, still clutching the damp towel 
and looking concernedly, now at me, now at the 
doctor. Once she bent over and whispered some¬ 
thing in his ear. 

“Sure he’ll get well!” he answered aloud. 
“He’s only creased, as they say out West. But 
he’ll be laid up a while, and he’ll need good care.” 

When the doctor had finished dressing my 
wound I asked him to look after the man in the 
next room. 

“Why, did he drop two of you?” 

“No, he’s the fellow that dropped me.” 

“Good Lord! You don’t mean to say you 
caught him— in your condition!” 

[ 161 ] 


“Look in at him and see.” 

A minute or so later, after the doctor had made 
a superficial examination of the new patient he 
came to the door and stood looking at me. 

“Say, — how did you do it? Every tendon in 
both wrists is cut as clean as a dog’s tooth — and 
with the loss of scarcely a drop of blood. It’s 
the smoothest job of amateur surgery I ever 
saw.” 

I nodded toward Chops, who stood with soldier¬ 
ly mien in one corner of the room. — “There’s 
the surgeon. It’s the second time he has saved 
my life this week.” Higby strode over to where 
Chops stood and put out his great brawny 
hand. — 

“I jest want t’ apologize fer the fool remark 
I made about thinkin’ ye was a nigger th’ fust 
time I see’d ye. If th’s any more like you in the 
country whar ye come from, it must be a great 
soil — thet’s all I’ve got t’ say about it. An’ 
when ye come here ye sure struck the right house 
t’ show up what ye can do when yer hard put.” 

Higby then went to the door and called in,— 
“Hey, Doc! ye don’t mind if I come in ?” Pres¬ 
ently Higby’s voice bellowed forth, — 

“Sufferin’ bobcats! He looks jest like thet 
Poet feller did, ’ceptin’ he looks fatter, and he 
aint got no must ash on.” 

[ 162 ] 


By this time my shoulder pained me so badly 
that I was not much concerned whether it was 
the Poet, or who it was. I called to Chops to 
bring the constable in. 

“Officer/' said I, as he approached the bed, “I 
don't know who that man is, and I don't know 
that it makes any difference. He is now in your 
custody and I hope you'll look after him here 
until he is well enough to be removed—if you 
are not afraid of his being rescued by some con¬ 
federate." 

When Minnie had left the room on some er¬ 
rand I called Chops to the bedside. 

“Chops, you have probably captured the worst 
one of the gang, but there is still another, and 
maybe two more; so be on your guard." He 
began reproaching himself, and hoped I would 
forgive his negligence; but I stopped him. 

“It was wholly due to my own carelessness; I 
should have known better than to open that door. 
You are a loyal, faithful, soul, Chops, and your 
faithfulness shall not go unrewarded." 

“I don't want any reward!" he burst out in an 
agonized tone; “I only want my master to get 
well." 

The doctor gave me a strong opiate and soon 
afterwards I fell asleep. 

When I awoke the early morning sun was 

[ 163 ] 


peeping in through the window. Higby and Min¬ 
nie were sitting bolt upright, one on either side 
of the bed, while Chops, sentinel-like, was posted 
in a chair by the door. Minnie sprang up and 
sponged my face; Higby got up, stretched his 
legs and arms and yawned, while Chops came 
over to the bedside and gazed at me with an ex¬ 
pression of solicitude. 

“Well,” said I, “if a fellow has any doubt as to 
who his real friends are, let him have a little trou¬ 
ble ; that will show which ones are pure gold. My 
good friends, it's really worth being wounded, 
just to see this manifestation of devotion. Chops, 
run down and make a pot of coffee.” 

Chops was gone in a twinkling, and as Higby 
looked down at me he jerked his thumb back over 
his shoulder. 

“Th' greatest joy thet feller could hev in this 
world would be t' give up his life fer you. I’ve 
hear'n tell of worshippin' idols, but I never see’d 
sech worship as he has fer you. But he's a 
knowin' cuss, and I reckon he aint makin' no mis¬ 
takes about who he takes to. 'Taint often thet 
these old hills sees the like of you, and I'm mighty 
glad it was me thet fust discovered ye here.” 

“Higby, there's no use trying to outdo you in 
handsome compliments. All my college rhetoric 
is no match for your native art. . . . Where's 

[ 164 ] 


Henneker and his man? Minnie, please see that 
Chops gets some breakfast for them/' 

When she left the room Higby turned to me 
with a broad, good-natured grin. 

“The way thet gal was a-lookin’ after ye and 
worryin’ about ye, I reckoned she was yer wife, 
but she sez she’s only yer new housekeeper. If I 
hed a gal like thet t’ take care of me, I wouldn’t 
mind housekeepin’ most anywhar.” 

“Yes, that’s the woman the detective accused 
me of calling on in the city.” Higby blew up his 
face like a toy balloon, then deflated it with a great 
gust. “Wall I want t’ know! If I aint mighty 
mistaken she’s wuth gettin’ arrested fer most any 
time.” 

“Yes, and I’m convinced that she is a thorough¬ 
ly good character. The poor girl has suffered 
some terrible affliction or disappointment, which 
she prefers to keep to herself. No woman pos¬ 
sessed of her beauty and natural charm would 
ever need to do menial work unless she valued 
her honor more highly than her wordly comfort. 
She commands my respect and admiration.” 

“I’m mighty glad t’ hear ye talk thet way, 
’cause it changes a lot o’ my ideas about rich men 
with a college education; and o’course ye know 
I was only sort o’ jokin’ in what I said about her, 
’thout knowin’ jest how ye felt towards her.” 

[ 165 ] 


Later our conversation was terminated by the 
approach of Minnie, bearing a heaping break¬ 
fast tray. Close behind was Chops with a small 
table, which he placed near the bed, and in a few 
moments Minnie and Higby were chatting mer¬ 
rily over a cozy breakfast. As Minnie was pour¬ 
ing the coffee, Higby looked over at me and 
winked. 

“Jest like a story, aint it? — a-settin' here eatin* 
breakfus with a fine lookin' gal," said he, munch¬ 
ing an ample mouthful of crisp toast. 

After breakfast I sent Chops to the village 
with a telegram to my old family physician, and 
early in the afternoon he came in with a great 
bustle, accompanied by an assistant bearing a huge 
black bag full of instruments and appliances, with 
a trained nurse trailing close behind. 

At the doorway he stopped short and stared 
at me. 

“Hello! what have we here?" he greeted me in 
a cheerful voice, and one of his contagious smiles. 
“Well, my young farmer, I thought you told me 
this was a health resort!" 

“So I did; but health, like faith, must be at¬ 
tended by good works; that's why I sent for you." 
As he crossed the room he threw off his hat and 
coat, which he flung into a chair and while the 
assistant sorted out the various instruments of 

[ 166 ] 


torture and carefully arranged them in rows on 
a sterilized cloth spread over the table, the doctor 
set to work on me. 

“A basin of hot water !” he snapped at the 
nurse, who flew out of the room to execute the 
command. After feeling my pulse he took off 
some of the bandages and began thumping away 
at my chest while he listened through his stetho¬ 
scope. 

“If you're sounding for the bullet hole, Doctor, 
it's in my shoulder.” 

“Never mind, you young Hercules, — I'll find 
that soon enough,” he laughed. “Your infernal¬ 
ly good physique has been cheating me ever since 
I brought you into the world; but now I've got 
you at last.” 

“No credit due me, Doctor; you are indebted 
to my man Chops for this job. But for him I 
should have been killed twice in the past few 
days.” At length when he brought his instru¬ 
ments into play he soon cured me of my joking 
propensities, but in an hour or so the ordeal was 
over and I was bandaged up again. 

“Not so bad, my boy — not so bad as I feared.” 
He put on his coat and sat by the bed. 

“Now that we've got you fixed up let's hear 
how it happened.” I related the story briefly, 
and when I came to the mention of the mysterious 

[ 167 ] 


Minnie Sherwin, he stopped me. “Sherwin?— 
Sherwin? —" he repeated, pinching his chin, 
while lost in thought. “Don't suppose it could 
be the missing daughter of old Bishop Sherwin, 
who died a few years ago ?" 

“I've no idea who her father was, and she won't 
tell. There is some deep and sorrowful mystery 
in her life." 

“Have her brought in," he said brusquely; “I 
don't know as I'd know her now anyway, but I'd 
like to look her over." 

I tapped the bell and a moment later Chops 
stood at the door. 

“Chops, ask Miss Sherwin to come." When 
she appeared the doctor scrutinized her closely. 

“Minnie, the doctor has finished; and would 
you mind bringing a couple of clean pillow slips 
for me?" The doctor cast a knowing glance at 
me and smiled. 

“No, I don't know her," he said when she had 
gone; “but judging from her appearance she 
could easily be the daughter of a bishop, or even 
of a prince. I'll look the matter up in my records 
in town. The bishop had a reprobate son that 
drove him to a premature grave." 

“That's it, — was his name Jerry, or Gerald?" 

“I don't know — perhaps so; he went by several 
names." 


[ 168 ] 


“Then if this is the sister she must have in¬ 
herited a double share of her father’s piety; she 
is scrupulous to the last degree; and her education 
was not neglected.” 

The doctor was deeply concerned; he went on 
to say that the bishop was a widower for some 
years; that the family stood high in the com¬ 
munity, but after the son’s disgraceful downfall, 
which was soon followed by the venerable pre¬ 
late’s death, the brother and sister disappeared 
and their friends lost all trace of them. It was 
thought that most of their worldly goods were 
wasted in extricating the dissolute son from his 
various difficulties. . . . “Your father used 

to know the bishop well, and if this is the girl, I’ve 
no doubt she knows who you are.” 

Minnie returned with the pillow slips, and the 
doctor having a late afternoon engagement in the 
city was obliged to hurry away. 

“I’ll try to run out tomorrow afternoon to 
look at you,” he said after some instructions to 
the nurse; and with a wave of his hand he was 
off. 

“Wonderful man!” I said to Minnie as she was 
arranging the pillows. 

“Yes, his very mannerisms are a tonic for 
most ailments.” 

Presently she bent over the bed, and with a 

[ 169 ] 


sly glance at the nurse, who was busy in another 
part of the room, she said in a low voice, — 

“Is there anything else / can do for you, Mr. 
Fletcher ?” 


[ 170 ] 


CHAPTER X 


When the doctor had gone I sent for Henneker 
and asked if his prisoner was in condition to be 
brought in and interviewed. He went directly to 
fetch him, and when he reappeared with his man, 
Chops followed close behind them. The man 
wore a haggard, hangdog expression, and scarce¬ 
ly looked at me. His wrists were splinted and 
bandaged, and about his neck and face were many 
signs of his tussel with Chops. He was of good 
physique, rather above the average height, with 
high cheek bones and prominent forehead, some¬ 
what overhung by his disarranged hair; and on 
the whole he looked like an intelligent villain. 

"Bring him over and have him sit down here, 
Henneker,” I said, nodding to a chair at the bed¬ 
side. The man swaggered across and sat down, 
with the dusky stalwart form of Chops towering 
over him from behind. He hung his head and 
still evaded my eyes. 

"My dear man, would you mind telling me what 
terrible grudge you have against me ?” He raised 

[ 1 7 1 ] 


his eyes slowly and glanced stealthily at me from 
under his lashes, but made no sound or move, 
other than to curl his upper lip like a snarling 
dog. 

“Have I ever injured you in any way, or other¬ 
wise given you any reason for trying to assas¬ 
sinate me?” I persisted. He set his jaws tight 
and shrugged his body, but did not reply. 

“Look up at me!" I commanded, with as much 
vehemence as my condition would permit. “Have 
I ever harmed you, or any of your kind?" He 
jerked his head up, with an ugly squinting look. — 

“Yes, damn you, you have! And HI get you 
yet!" he snarled; accompanying the remark with 
a nervous twitch of his body. Quick as a flash 
Chops' hand shot out and caught his shoulder, 
causing him to grimace with pain. 

“And you refuse to tell me your reason?" I 
asked with waning patience. “You must have 
some imaginary cause for entering my home and 
attacking me in the night." 

“Of course I refuse!" he barked with a savage 
look. For a few moments I lay regarding him. 
His dogged obstinacy puzzled me, while his 
malevolent spirit of revenge irritated me to the 
point of exhaustion. Both my patience and my 
strength being spent, in a flare of passion I 
said,— 


1172 ] 


“Henneker, take the damned tantalizing brute 
out of my sight and chuck him into a room and 
lock the door! My man should have finished 
him, instead of leaving him for me to torment 
myself with.” 

“Come, get out o’ here with yer insolence!” 
commanded Henneker, and laying hold of the 
man’s shoulder he brought him to his feet. “Ye 
deserve to be hung—and I reckon thet’s what 
ye’ll get too.” 

The man gave me an ugly look, and his jaws 
came together with a snap. 

“Say, Mr. Whiteslaver, you can’t get away 
with your game; and if you don’t let that girl 
go there’ll be two more men after you. I know 
your kind, and if they don’t get you, / will. I’ll 
get you if I have to swing for it.” 

“And thet, I reckon, is about what’s cornin’ t’ 
ye anyhow, whether ye git him er not.” It was 
the voice of Higby, who having called in to see 
how I was getting on, entered the door in time 
to hear the man’s last remark. “Yer face looks 
mighty familiar, Mr. Man, and if ye aint the dead 
Poet, ye’re almost a dead ringer fer him, ’ceptin’ 
ye don’t look much consumptive.” 

Henneker took the man by the collar and 
started to lead him out, but I stopped him. I was 
convinced that since he had refused to respond 

[ 173 ] 


to kindly persuasive overtures, the only way of 
unlocking his jaws and loosening his tongue was 
to adopt his own bulldog tactics and prod him 
with insult and abuse. Addressing the others 
present I said, — 

“Although this fellow is plainly vicious and 
cowardly, he is laboring under some misappre¬ 
hension, and I should like to get at his view¬ 
point. Not knowing me he wouldn’t be apt to 
take the trouble to come out here and shoot me 
for mere amusement, and if he isn’t the low down 
sneaking coward that he seems to be, he’ll explain 
what he means by offering such an insult to that 
young woman.” The man paled visibly at this 
remark; his crippled hands jerked, and his frame 
shook with suppressed rage. 

“No man ever called me a coward and got 
away with it,” he said in a shaky voice. 

“Then if ye aint a coward ye’re an idiot,” put 
in Higby; “and ye aint helpin’ yer case none by 
actin’ th’ damn fool.” 

The man, who stood with his squinting eyes 
fastened on me, paid no heed to Higby’s remark. 
— “You bought her, didn’t you? You paid her 
board and brought her out here.” 

“You have evidently been misinformed, sir; but 
you seem to have gone on the theory of shooting 
first and explaining afterwards. This young worn- 

[ 174 ] 


an came out here yesterday to warn me that some 
jealous lunatic intended to attack me, but I didn’t 
suppose you' would follow her so soon.” 

The man looked puzzled. “Yesterday? Yes¬ 
terday?” he repeated meditatively. Didn’t you 
bring her out with you from the boarding house?” 

At this Higby burst forth like a thunderstorm. 
— “Now, looky here, Mr. Man-killer, ye can’t put 
any bluff like thet over on us. We’ve got the 
lines on ye all right. Ye took thet gal away 
from the boardin’ house yerself, after she’d en¬ 
gaged t’ work fer this man, and when ye found 
he’d loaned her some money so’s she could pay 
her board and git her trunk away ye got jealous 
and tried t’ kill ’im. And now thet ye’ve made 
a mess o’ the job, ye’re tryin’ t’ sneak out of it 
by accusin’ him of white-slavin’. Th’ gal hired 
out ’cause she needed somethin’ t’ live on, and 
she don’t need th’ like of you t’ look after her 
honor; she’s jest as safe here as she would be 
workin’ fer her own father. But the thing I 
can’t understand is how sech a fine gal ever got 
mixed up with a skunk like you. I hate to talk 
to ye that way, all crippled up as ye are, but from 
the way ye act ye don’t seem t’ be deservin’ er 
lookin’ fer anybody’s sympathy.” 

The man’s astonished eyes wandered about 
from one to another, his mind apparantly in a 

[ 175 ] 


maze. Finally he sat down and for some mo¬ 
ments was lost in a reverie. “I guess there's 
some mistake," he mumbled in an undertone. 
“That dog must have lied to me. I guess I've 
been a fool — a damned fool!" he broke out. 

“Too bad ye didn't find thet out a day or two 
sooner," remarked Higby sententiously. “Ye 
might hev saved yerself a lot of bother." 

“I didn’t take that girl away from the boarding 
house, and I didn't follow her out here. I was 
out here three days laying for this man, think¬ 
ing he had her shut up here all the time. The first 
night I came in through the cellar door, but 
some one waked up and stalled me, then the 
next two nights there were a lot of people here 
in the house." 

“Yes," said I, “there was a detective here, 
probably looking for you." 

“Not me— they haven't got anything on me — 
except this, I could tell a lot of things that 
would go hard with someone else, but I guess I 
won't do any squealing until the time comes." 

“You seem quite familiar with the premises 
here; you knew precisely where to find my bed¬ 
room." 

“Couldn't I see you standing there looking out 
the window before you went to bed? I came 
near taking a shot at you then; but I was afraid 

[ 176 ] 


of missing. Say, Mister, could I see the girl and 
get this thing straight ?" 

“I’m sorry you doubt our word, sir, but I 
wouldn't think of bringing her in contact with 
you." 

He settled back resignedly and glanced down 
at his bandaged hands, a bitter smile playing on 
his lips. 

With a view to ascertaining if this was the 
missing poet I directed Chops to get the red ink 
poem and hold it up before the man's eyes. — 

“Did you ever see that before?" 

He gave it a swift glance, and grunted. 

“That's not my writing." 

“Did I say it was?" 

“No, but you thought it was." 

“You are more of a novice than I thought. If 
you never saw that paper, why should you as¬ 
sume that I thought it was your writing? Al¬ 
though, as a matter of fact, I suspect that you are 
a man of some learning, with a strong literary 
bent. You don't employ the usual lingo of an 
ignorant crook." 

“Say, Mister, what are you trying to do — 
kid me?" 

At my request Chops brought in the old news¬ 
papers that I had mistaken for manuscripts, and 
selecting one with headlines in display type giv- 

[ 177 ] 


ing an account of the robbery, I asked Chops to 
hold it up so the man could read it. 

“Did you ever see that?” He regarded it with 
a sneer. 

“So you think I made that haul, do you? Well 
you’re dead wrong again — I have no use for 
such junk as stocks and bonds. Say, what is this 
anyway—a police court? Haven’t you got 
enough on me already, without accusing me of 
writing poetry and stealing bonds?” 

“Excuse me; I meant no offense. The truth is, 
I regarded that poem as a stroke of genius—it’s 
nothing you need be ashamed of. When I read 
it to the detective the other night he jumped 
through the window and ran for his life.” The 
man smiled; and Higby, looking at Henneker, 
burst into laughter. 

“Funny,—wasn’t it Bill, — t’ see thet detec¬ 
tive flyin’ out through th’ winder?” Henneker, 
though considerably abashed, joined bravely in 
the merriment. “I reckon it would hev been fun¬ 
nier to me, if I hadn’t flew out fust,” he snickered. 

“You seem not to be of a curious turn of mind,” 
I said to the man. 

“How so?” 

“Because you haven’t shown the slightest in¬ 
terest in what frightful thing it was in the poem 
that alarmed the detective.” 

[ 178 ] 


“Oh! —I thought that was only a trick of his,” 
he parried. “You give me a lot of credit if you 
think I could write anything that would scare a 
detective.” 

“If you had employed your genius in more 
peaceful pursuits you might now have a wider 
reputation for good than you have for bad; 
though your actions would indicate that you are 
not altogether void of gallantry, even though 
you showed it at my expense.” 

“Say, Mister, you’re not as bad as I thought 
you were, after all.” 

Higby came up to the man and laid a hand on 
his shoulder. — “And, say, Mister Man—what¬ 
ever yer name might be—now ye’re talkin’ th’ 
fust hoss sense I’ve see’d ye show since I come 
in; and I want t’ tell ye right now thet ye aint 
makin’ no mistake in what ye jest said. This 
gentleman’s kept ye here and doctored ye and 
fed ye, and treated ye like a friend ’stead of a 
sneakin’ night-owl thet tried t’ murder him ’thout 
givin’ him a chance fer his life.” 

The nurse appeared at the door and said that 
the doctor’s orders were that I should be kept 
free from any disturbance, and she feared I would 
overtax my strength; also that it was time to 
take my medicine. 

“All right, — but wait another minute. Higby, 

[ 179 ] 


will you and Henneker step outside a moment and 
leave this man with me? I’ll tap the bell when 
I want you. Chops, you may go too; I’m per¬ 
fectly safe.” They both went out, followed by 
Chops, who looked back doubtingly from the 
door. 

“And now, my man, there is one question I 
want to ask you, just between ourselves; and I 
want you either to answer it truthfully or not at 
all. I promise you on my word as a gentleman 
that your answer will never be divulged, or used 
against you in any way. You owe me more than 
a mere apology for shooting me up as you did, 
and considering this I hope you will feel some 
sense of obligation. Are you the man who for¬ 
merly lived here under the name of John Gal¬ 
braith ?” 

For the first time, he looked me unflinchingly in 
the eye. — “If I answer that one question, will you 
promise not to ask any more?” 

“You have my promise.” 

“Then I say no — and that’s the God’s truth.” 

Instantly I regretted the rashness of my prom¬ 
ise, for there were many other questions I wanted 
to ask; but I thanked him and tapped the bell. 
The door opened as if it had been electrically 
connected with the bell, and Chops stood looking 
in, Henneker gazing over his shoulder. 

[ 180 ] 


“Henneker, your man is waiting for you. And 
Chops, you may call the nurse.” She came in 
shortly with a glass of water and some medicine. 

“You are much too considerate of that worth¬ 
less fellow, and too little mindful of your own 
strength,” she said. “Any great excitement is 
likely to bring on a hemorrhage. Your house¬ 
keeper asked me repeatedly to have you order 
him out of the room; she says he's a terrible 
character, and has great hypnotic power over 
certain persons.” 

“No doubt he is bad enough,” I agreed; “but 
like most criminals he has some redeeming qual¬ 
ities.” I took the medicine, and being tired I 
soon fell asleep. 

The doctor came out the next afternoon, bring¬ 
ing Phil Barton along. He also brought a few 
articles I had asked him to purchase for Minnie. 
After some inquires of the nurse he thumped me 
over vigorously and remarked that inside of three 
weeks I'd be “as sound as a nut.” He had looked 
up his records and found that Bishop Sherwin 
had a daughter named Minnie, age twenty-six. 
— “You undoubtedly have a very high-class 
housekeeper,” he added. 

I looked at Phil, who sat grinning. 

“Phil, you incredulous old hound, you came 
near disillusioning me for a while.” 

[ 181 ] 


“It can't be done," he laughed; “you have no 
illusions. But who is this fellow that winged 
you ?" 

“I don't know. I thought he was Galbraith 
the poet, — but he isn't." 

“Did he say so?" 

“Yes, and strange as it may seem to you, I 
believe him." 

“I shall never again doubt any statement com¬ 
ing from you, even if it originated with a liar and 
a crook," he said with a deferential bow. 

“But that isn't all this fellow knows; he knows 
Minnie Sherwin, and undoubtedly he knows her 
brother, and Galbraith the poet, and all about 
how they came to be here; perhaps he was here 
himself at times." 

“But you said the Poet was dead." 

“Maybe he is, and maybe not. It must have 
been her brother who took her away from the 
boarding house, and on some lying pretext he got 
this fellow — who is likely one of his pals — to 
come out here. He came out the night I was in 
town. The second and third nights he was 
frightened off by the men in the house; and the 
fourth night he got me." 

“And then Chops got him ” he added. “Great 
asset, you've got there in that Egyptian. In lieu 


[ 182 ] 


of a wife you need someone like that to look after 
you.” 

I was about to tell the doctor more of my in¬ 
terview with the man, but he frightened me out 
of it by warning Phil not to excite me with any 
more conversation. He said it was the day for 
the fever to come up, or something of that sort, 
and reminded Phil that he permitted him to come 
along only on condition that he keep quiet and 
not talk—a most hopeless injunction for any¬ 
one to attempt to impose upon Phil when the topic 
of women was up. We both tried to persuade 
him to let Phil stay over night, but he would not 
listen to it. The best he would promise was a 
week later. 

Minnie came to the door to ask if there was 
anything she could do for me, and I introduced 
the two men to her. The doctor crossed the 
room and shook her hand cordially; but being 
forewarned he made no mention of having known 
her father. 

“Minnie,—Dr. Bankhart has been kind 
enough to bring out a few articles that you may 
find useful until your trunk arrives. The bundle 
is there by the door; better have Chops take it 
to your room.” A tinge of color suffused her 
cheeks as she expressed her gratitude for my 


[ 183 ] 


thoughtfulness, and thanked the doctor for his 
kindness. In another moment she was gone, and 
the two men sat staring after her. 

“By George!” exclaimed the doctor, turning 
to me — “A speech and bearing that would be¬ 
come a queen! —just enough, and not too much. 
And such a charming, well modulated voice! But 
still it isn't strange; no girl ever had better 
bringing up. She was her father’s pet and com¬ 
panion. It’s pitiful when people of her type fall 
from their accustomed position; and yet it’s pity 
that hurts them most of all, and it’s hard to help 
them without hurting their pride. You see she 
wouldn’t marry beneath herself, and she’s 
ashamed to face those of her own class, — though 
she needn’t be.” 

“And yet so wags the world,” observed Phil 
with a doleful sigh. “A fellow like Garry here, 
for instance, would never think of jeopardizing 
his position in the world by marrying a girl 
whose brother is a notorious scalawag.” 

I was uncertain whether he was a little piqued 
because the girl had disappointed him in not 
turning out to be the designing vampire he had 
contended she was, or if he was only sounding 
me out. 

“No, of course not,” said I, a little provoked; 
“but be assured of one thing, if ever I do marry, 

[ 1841 


it will be to suit myself — not to maintain any 
social prestige, or to satisfy the whimsical notions 
of others.” 

“Garry, you win,” he said. “That was a rot¬ 
ten remark, and I apologize. An ounce of your 
intuition is worth a pound of caution. You were 
dead right about the girl, and I frankly admit I 
was dead wrong.” 

The doctor, perhaps fearing that further dis¬ 
cussion might increase my pulse, hurried Phil 
away under the pretext of some pressing engage¬ 
ment in town. 

Doctor Bankhart’s report about Minnie only 
substantiated what had become a firmly grounded 
belief with me. There could have been another 
girl of that name — there might possibly be one 
with a profligate brother named Gerald; but be¬ 
yond a doubt the circumstantial evidence in the 
case supported the theory that this was the de¬ 
ceased bishop’s daughter. As the doctor had 
surmised, she probably knew who I was; also she 
must have known him, by reputation at least. 
Now that I had found out her identity we were 
about at quits on that score, yet we were no 
nearer together in each other’s confidence. I 
suspected that after the death of her noble parent 
she had stuck to her wayward brother with loyal 
sisterly devotion, and permitted herself to be 

[ 185 ] 


dragged down by association with him. As there 
is no impulse more spontaneous than to plunge 
in and attempt to rescue a drowning person who is 
dear to you, so also there is no result more prob¬ 
able than that that person will pull you under, 
unless you are a skillful swimmer. In the effort 
of rescuing and bringing one of her own flesh 
and blood back to a life of rectitude she had per¬ 
haps overestimated his pride and his fealty to 
her in supposing that either or both of these vital 
forces would bring about his reform. It was a 
tremendous and self-sacrificing ambition in which 
she had apparently failed. But she was at least 
true to the traditions of her sex in offering her¬ 
self as a willing sacrifice in an effort to retrieve 
an ungrateful and unregenerate kinsman. 

In her letter she told him that he needed her; 
and she endeavored to appeal to him by saying 
that she also needed him, — which latter state¬ 
ment was doubtless an artifice, except insofar as 
she needed his financial assistance. 

But the great problem was how to obtain her 
confidence and elicit some voluntary statement 
from her without adopting the brutal expedient 
of telling her that I had unveiled her secret. Af¬ 
ter long meditation I hit upon a plan which I 
determined to put into effect at the first opportune 
moment. 


[ 186 ] 


An hour or so after the doctor’s departure 
Minnie came in, bearing a small tray with a cup 
of steaming chicken broth. 

“Before the doctor left I obtained his consent 
to make this for you,” she said joyfully; “in fact 
he prescribed your diet and gave me permission 
to prepare and serve all your meals.” 

“You made a great hit with him, Minnie.” 

“Not really!” 

“Yes, really. He’s an old stickler for estab¬ 
lished forms, and it’s probably the first concession 
of that kind he ever made to a patient.” 

“You are very kind to regard it as a concession 
to you. To me it is a very great privilege. I’ve 
often heard of Dr. Bankhart, and I was so happy 
to have you introduce me. Isn’t he a perfect old 
dear!” 

“Please sit down,” I said; “you have been under 
such violent tension that I wonder you have any 
nerves left.” 

“I feel quite composed now,” she said, taking 
a chair. “I observe that your own pain detracts 
nothing from your solicitude for others. And 
that detestable man — your patience with him is 
beyond my comprehension.” 

“But you will be interested to know that I 
have been rewarded handsomely for my patience. 
What he has already confessed justifies the com- 

[ 187 ] 


forting inference that I am not likely to be shot 
again for the same offence.” 

“Why! — has he really confessed?” 

“Only to this extent, —that he came here un¬ 
der a misapprehension, and that the man who sent 
him misstated the facts.” 

“Misstated!” she murmured. “You put it 
mildly.” 

“Yes, and this fellow feels that he’s been made 
the goat, so to speak. I don’t believe now that 
we’re in any further danger, for this other man 
has not the courage to follow up his convictions.” 

“Oh, I am at such a great disadvantage!” she 
lamented; “But it is all so shameful that I can¬ 
not get up the courage to tell you — you’ll think 
me dishonest if I don’t, and you’ll surely turn me 
out of your house if I do.” 

“My dear Miss— I mean Minnie, — you do me 
a great injustice — 

“Yes, I know — I should never have accepted 
your kindness,” she broke in, becoming a trifle 
hysterical. 

“No, no! I don’t mean that. Now, please 
calm your nerves and listen to me, Minnie.” 

“Yes—yes, I will; please go on,” she said, 
pulling herself together. 

“My one thought is to help you, —not to hurt 
you. Regardless of what your troubles are, they 
[ 188 ] 


are due to no fault of yours — I know that. Noth¬ 
ing under heaven — not even your own word — 
could convince me that you have an evil thought 
or a vein of dishonest blood in your whole make¬ 
up. Like a deer chased by hounds, you have 
been buffeted about until you take fright at every 
rustling leaf. Having no one among your equals 
to confide in, you have nursed your sorrows in 
your bosom until they threaten to permeate and 
corrode your whole being, and shut out your per¬ 
spective of life, friendship, happiness. Not only 
have you lost confidence in yourself, — you have 
lost faith in the better part of humanity. You 
are timid; you are fearful that people will mis¬ 
judge you, or even worse, pity you because of 
your relationship to some unworthy person for 
whom you have sacrificed much of the most prom¬ 
ising part of your life in the hope of redeeming 
him; and having given up the place in society to 
which your breeding and accomplishments entitle 
you, you find it impossible to return and face your 
old friends. Your case is not singular; life is 
filled with such tragedies; and unhappily it too 
often falls to the lot of some noble-minded woman 
to bear the burden of sorrow. It is a part of 
your woman’s nature to hide from the world the 
pangs of wounded pride, and to conceal the sor¬ 
row that preys upon your very vitals.” 

[ 189 ] 


Through this long speech she sat staring at me, 
her breath coming and going in short, convulsive 
pants, her face slightly paled. 

“You almost terrify me!” she gasped. “You 
have read my thoughts with mesmeric weird¬ 
ness!” 

“Nothing mesmeric about it,” I protested; “it 
is simply a statement of facts that must be obvious 
to anyone with eyes and understanding. If you 
should see a beautiful and highly civilized wom¬ 
an running round in a half-mile circle in a dense 
forest, would you think she belonged there? Your 
natural inference would be that she had merely 
lost her bearings; and that’s precisely what you 
have done.” 

“Yes, you are right — that’s exactly what I’ve 
done — I have lost my social position — lost my 
friends — lost my grip on life itself; in fact, it 
seems I’ve lost everything, save only my self-re¬ 
spect. I seem to have a dual personality that has 
existed in two worlds. In my former self I was edu¬ 
cated— lived in an atmosphere of refinement— 
mingled with respectable people. I was light-heart¬ 
ed and happy. From that I was dragged by force 
of circumstances into an underworld peopled with 
savages, with whom I had no thought in com¬ 
mon — where I read no books, had no companion¬ 
ship ; and worst of all, no hope. My happy, care- 

[ 190 ] 


free state was replaced by degradation, misery 
and confusion! I endured their vulgar jests — 
their insults, their accusations! I have been the 
victim of hideous dreams by night, of torturing 
mental visions by day. Having severed every 
bond that connected me with decent society I 
have become an outcast. — You have wrung my 
secret from me — I am an outcast ! Oh, merciful 
Heaven, what misery and mental impoverishment 
I have suffered!" 

The anguish expressed in her last words seem¬ 
ed to issue from the depths of a tortured soul; it 
rendered me speechless for the moment. In that 
short interval she recovered her self-possession 
and begged me to excuse her for giving way to 
her feelings. 

“I don't know why I should have troubled you 
with my misfortunes — which I intended to carry 
uncomplainingly to my grave—unless it was 
that your discovery of my hidden thoughts caused 
them involuntarily to gush forth, like blood from 
an opened wound!" 

She rose from her chair. — “Please let me go 
away — I bring you nothing but trouble and 
disaster." 

“No, no!" I cried, “You must not — you can't 
leave me — in this condition!" 

At this juncture the country physician, who had 

[ 191 ] 


been attending the injured man, put his head in 
through the half-open door. — 

“May I come in?” he asked. I could have 
murdered him. 


[ 192 ] 


CHAPTER XI 


I was aroused from a sound sleep next morn¬ 
ing by the nurse, who came in ? greatly excited — 
her features strained, her hair disheveled, and her 
red-rimmed eyes underlined with dark circles. 

“Oh, Mr. Fletcher, I must leave this house at 
once! Please have someone take me to the vil¬ 
lage immediately! I never slept a wink all night, 
and it seemed as if morning would never come!” 

I rubbed my eyes and looked at her in wonder¬ 
ment. Suspecting that someone had been telling 
her a ghost story, I inquired if she believed in 
haunted houses. 

“N-no,” she quavered, “I never did until I got 
into this one. It seemed frightfully spooky at 
first, but I didn’t think much more about it until 
last night after you fell asleep I was straighten¬ 
ing up your chiffonier, and came upon that awful 
warning poem in the top drawer. I showed it to 
your housekeeper, and we both sat up all night, 
with two lamps burning. I wouldn’t go to sleep 
in the dark here again for worlds — not for 

[ 193 ] 


worlds! We heard the most terrifying noises — 
things crawling about—one sounded just like a 
human body crawling on its stomach, — boards 
creaking, doors opening and closing, windows 
rattling — something moving or hissing in every 
part of the house. I didn’t dare move out of my 
room; and I just expected every minute to be at¬ 
tacked by some dreadful thing. How can you 
sleep in such a place! This house is twice as 
noisy in the dead of night as it is in daytime, 
with everyone awake and moving about — ” 

“My dear young lady,” I interrupted, “you have 
plainly missed your calling. A woman with your 
storehouse of imagination is denying the world 
a great deal in sacrificing her talents on a few 
sick people.” 

She regarded me with a look of perplexity.— 
“But I know what I know.” 

“I don’t know what you know,” said I, “but / 
know that I can’t get away from here now, and 
surely you are not going to desert me in this 
disabled condition. It would be unprofessional 
to leave me—the doctor would black-list you — 
it would ruin your career as a nurse.” 

“I can’t help it — I wouldn’t stay another night 
in this house if my own father were sick here!” 

“And the housekeeper, is she going too?” 

“Why, yes, of course — I suppose so. No one 

[ 194 ] 


could live here, knowing what we know.” She 
stared about, a hunted, terror-stricken look in 
her eyes, like some wild animal at bay. 

There was obviously no use arguing the matter 
further; her nerves were so unstrung that no 
amount of reasoning could move her. And Min¬ 
nie had probably decided to go with her. 
Chagrined over her unintentional disclosure, she 
was probably using this incident as a pretext to 
get away, thinking either that I was possessed of 
magic, or that I would not have the proper re¬ 
spect for her,—perhaps both. In her sensitive 
state of mind she might, in these surroundings, 
imagine almost anything; and if it really embar¬ 
rassed her to stay, there was but small chance 
that she could be induced to change her decision 
to go. Her womanly pride had no doubt been 
stung, and she felt mortified and abashed,—all 
because with indiscreet eagerness I had urged 
matters too fast, and wrung the confession from 
her reluctant lips by what she regarded as hyp¬ 
notic force. I had doubly disobeyed the injunc¬ 
tion of the ancient philosopher who said that if 
you would keep a friend, refuse either to lend 
him money or to become the repository of his per¬ 
sonal secrets; for in the first instance he will shun 
you because of his obligation to you, and in the 
second instance he will despise you because of 

[ 195 ] 


your obligation to him. One debt will offset the 
other, and the inevitable result is the loss of both 
your money and your friend. 

I was therefore in a panic of fear lest Minnie 
should leave me, and I should be alone again, 
with only Chops to act as nurse, cook and house¬ 
keeper. I had been better off if that abominable 
poem had been destroyed; for this new contre¬ 
temps provoked a suspicion that the spirit of its 
author still lurked about to fulfill the mission of 
impressing its warning note upon all who read it. 

During the two weeks or so of my residence I 
had spent scarcely a comfortable hour; and hav¬ 
ing no outside man to look after the yard or 
plant the garden, the season was advancing with 
nothing being accomplished. Thieves, assassins, 
detectives, the omnipresent mysteries, the hidden 
treasure, the disembodied spirits industriously 
pursuing hysterical employes — not forgetting 
the well, filled to above the water line with limed 
skeletons — these all served their turn in provid¬ 
ing a stirring and almost continuous performance, 
day and night. I had been persistently harried 
and torn ffwixt curiosity and anxiety, and finally 
shot down. Now I could do nothing but lie help¬ 
less, and meditate on the perverseness of things 
past, and speculate on what form of calamity the 
next curtain would reveal. The mysteries and 

[ i 9 6 ] 


nocturnal visitations, at first thrilling and divert¬ 
ing, were wearing on my nerves. — Some Diony¬ 
sian demon seemed to be carelessly dangling the 
historic Sword of Damocles by a fragile hair 
from every ceiling, and the suspense of living 
anywhere beneath the roof was no less than that 
suffered by the unfortunate victim over whose 
head Dionysius suspended that threatening weap¬ 
on. He enjoyed this advantage over me, how¬ 
ever,— only the banquet hall of his house is re¬ 
puted to have been cursed with this infernal 
device for tormenting him, and his tortures were 
only mental. 

If I could have got out of bed I should have 
sent the two women to the city and followed by 
the next train. My first impression on seeing the 
house had been correct — it was a fit place of 
residence only for bats and owls. 

In a huff of impatience I ordered the nurse 
to send Minnie, who responded promptly. On 
entering the room she greeted me with an en¬ 
couraging smile, and looked none the worse for 
her night's wakefulness. Unlike the nurse, her 
appearance was tidy, her hair was neatly dressed, 
and she seemed as calm and complaisant as if 
nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. 

“Minnie, you read that poem?" 

“Yes — isn't it dreadful!" 

[ 197 ] 


“Of course you know it has nothing to do with 
this house.” 

“No — ” she hesitated, “but I wonder if Gal¬ 
braith wasn’t more than half in earnest when he 
wrote it.” 

“Then you believe it to be some bad omen?” 

“No, not exactly that — ” 

“But it frightened you out of a night’s sleep; 
and you’ve decided to leave with the nurse — is 
that true ?” 

Her look of surprise was reassuring. 

“I did sit up with the nurse, but it was to keep 
her company — she was so nervous and scared. 
It was not because I was afraid of ghosts. As for 
going away, I had not even so much as thought 
of that, after what you said yesterday. It was 
inconsiderate of me to suggest it then—but I 
was so shaken that I hardly realized what I was 
saying.” 

“Then you are not going away?” 

“Not until you send me away. And as for the 
nurse leaving, if she is determined to go, I will 
do my best to carry out the doctor’s orders to 
her.” 

And without further ado she set to work. She 
propped me up with a bank of pillows, and as she 
was bathing my face she said laughingly,— 
“You’ll laugh when I tell you what this reminds 

[ 198 ] 


me of. — Three of us girls used to do volunteer 
work one afternoon a week at a children’s hos¬ 
pital, and the first job they gave me was keeping 
the kiddies’ faces clean.” 

When she had finished she brushed my hair 
and stood viewing her work with a critical eye. — 
“Father always said that a woman never could 
learn to comb a man’s hair. I wonder why 
it is —it looks easy enough.” 

For a brief space I gazed at her in mute ad¬ 
miration. 

“I can’t imagine such a thing as your not being 
able to learn to do anything you undertake.” 

“You’ll spoil me,” she said, the color suddenly 
deepening in her cheeks. 

Presently she left the room, returning a few 
minutes later with a glass of cold orange juice. 

When Henneker had finished his breakfast he 
came in and reported that his charge was far 
enough along toward recovery to be taken away, 
but before going the man hoped he might be per¬ 
mitted to say good-by to me. I had him brought 
in, and was surprised to see so great a change in 
his demeanor and general appearance. He walk¬ 
ed briskly up to the bedside and stood looking 
down at me. 

“If I ever get out of this scrape I’d like to see 
you. I can’t shake hands with you, and I don’t 

[ 199 ] 


suppose you’d take my hand anyway; but I just 
wanted a chance to tell you that you’re a game 
sport, and you’ve taught me a lesson that I won’t 
forget.” 

“My dear fellow, you are mistaken if you think 
I hold any grudge against you. I wish you noth¬ 
ing but good luck.” 

Although he had shot me up in a cowardly man¬ 
ner, I was deeply affected when he turned re¬ 
morsefully away and dragged his feet from the 
room. The constable took him away to be ar¬ 
raigned before the county magistrate. 

When he had gone the nurse came in, dressed 
for her departure, to bid me good-by. “Your 
housekeeper has decided not to go,” she said, 
“and I’ve given her the doctor’s instructions about 
your medicine, etc. I hope everything will be all 
right.” 

“I’m sure it will,” I assured her. “And thank 
you for your kind offices in persuading her to 
stay and look after me.” 

She looked a little puzzled, but made no reply. 
At the door she turned and cast a farewell glance 
about the room. 

“Well, good luck to you,” she sighed. 

A few minutes later Higby stalked into the 
room, bearing a huge panful of doughnuts, which 
he said his wife had made for me that morning. 

[ 200 ] 


“She wanted me t' make haste and get 'em here 
afore they got cold, but I can't see as it makes a 
sight of difference, 'cause they're boun't' git cold 
anyhow afore ye git 'em all et." 

He also brought along a rooster and a dozen 
hens, which he insisted on presenting to me, de¬ 
claring that the former was “a great fighter and 
a fine crower," and the latter were all good layers. 
“The hen business is a fine business, if ye know 
how to make 'em lay. My ole woman feeds 'em 
up on hot pepper mashes and wheedles the eggs 
away from 'em jest like swappin' a baby a lolly- 
pop fer a toy." 

When I told him about the nurse episode he 
laughed, but soon his face grew sober and he 
looked at me with a little squint in one eye. 

“I can tell ye one thing, my boy, ye've got one 
gal here thet aint afeard o' no ghosts, and she aint 
afeard o' work nuther. This ole house haint hed 
sech a goin' over in many a moon as she and thet 
man o' your'n has give it since ye’ve been in bed." 

“And think of it, Higby, she belongs to one of 
the finest families in the state. — She's the or¬ 
phaned daughter of a distinguished man who died 
a few years ago." 

“Wall, thet don't surprise me none. I know'd 
the minit I sot eyes on her thet she was a thor¬ 
oughbred. Didn't I tell ye th' fust thing, thet 

[ 201 ] 


I thought she was yer wife? I tell ye, ye can’t 
git around it, good breedin’ will tell every 
time. . . . But ye ort to of see’d my ole 

woman when I tole her about hevin’ breakfast 
with thet purty gal. — Haw, haw! Ye know 
twenty years ago I uster think I was a regular 
ladies’ man; but when I got married I soon got 
thet took out’n me. If a feller thinks he’s a devil 
with the women, jest let him marry one of ’em — 
the rest of ’em will all shed him like as if he hed 
smallpox. . . . But I wont pester ye no 

longer. My spring work’s all gettin’ behind and 
I must git right back. If ye don’t git a man in a 
day or so, I’ll come up and put yer garden in fer 
ye,” he called back as he went out. 

He was off, and I listened to his heavy boots 
echoing through the hall and down the stairs. 
He was a rare good soul, with a big heart and a 
refreshing personality, untarnished with artful¬ 
ness. 

Scarcely had Higby’s footsteps died away when 
Chops came hurrying in, with Higby trailing back 
in close pursuit. 

“Back so soon, Chops? What’s your excite¬ 
ment about?” He said that at the foot of the 
hill he met a strange man coming up, and not 
liking his appearance he turned and hurried back; 


[ 202 ] 


that the man must have turned off into the brush 
for he did not pass him on his way up. 

“Looks funny, don’t it?” remarked Higby. 
“Reckon I’d better stay here with ye till yer man 
gets back from takin’ th’ nurse to the village.” 
When Chops had gone Higby put his head out 
the front window and craned it about. — 

“Thet feller’s got a scent like a fox hound. He 
can smell a crook afore he gits in sight. Now 
thar aint no one thet ever walks up thet steep 
hill jest fer exercise, and like as not it was some 
pal cornin’ out t’ rescue thet feller — thinkin’ he’s 
still here — er else t’ finish up the job the other 
feller set out to do. Gad! I’d like t’ be here when 
he gits inside and runs into thet Chops man o’ 
your’n! Not thet I’d be needed at all, but I’d 
like ter see th’ fun.” 

“All right—you may come up if you like; I 
can at least promise you a good bed and break¬ 
fast— and I think there’s still some wine. Then 
you know Minnie has taken quite a shine to you 
since the breakfast you had together the other 
morning, — she’ll be delighted.” 

He brought his great palm down on his leg 
with a whack, and chuckled with gleeful satis¬ 
faction. 

“By gonnies! I’ll be here right after chorin’ 
time this evenin’.” 


[ 203 ] 


When Chops returned Higby set off for home 
in high spirits. 

In the afternoon the doctor came out, and find¬ 
ing the nurse gone he sent forth a volley of in¬ 
vective against “the idiotic idiosyncrasies of ig¬ 
norant people, — ” a phrase of such high-sound¬ 
ing abstruseness that in halting to disentangle it 
I lost half the remainder of his tirade. 

“But Doctor, perhaps you don’t take into con¬ 
sideration the — ” 

“When I le'ave a nurse in charge of a patient,” 
he blustered, “I take nothing into consideration, 
except sickness or sudden death, as an excuse for 
her going off duty!” After this explosion he 
calmed down and when he had dressed my shoul¬ 
der he sat on the edge of the bed, chatting for 
some minutes, — finally reverting again to the 
nurse. 

“Doctor, would you mind reaching into that 
top chiffonier drawer and getting that slip of 
paper written in red ink?” He took the paper 
out and read it hurriedly, then again, more de¬ 
liberately. 

“Did she get hold of this?” 

“Yes, she found it there in the drawer last 
night when I was asleep.” 

“Well, if you will leave poison about, you must 
expect that children will get at it,” he remarked 

[ 204 ] 


tersely, while he gazed dubiously about the room. 

“But Doctor, you know that poem doesn't 
sound half as bad in daylight as it does at night, 
with the lights turned low." 

“No, I suppose not; but it's a villainous piece of 
verse, even for daylight reading.—What's this 
place like anyhow? Isn't really haunted is it?" 

“No, of course it isn't; that's only a paraphrase 
of an old poem that someone wrote and left here 
as a joke." 

“Better keep it out of sight," he said crisply. 
“Some people might not understand it. Don’t 
let your Egyptian see it." 

“I've already read it to him." 

You have read it to him! — And it didn't affect 
him?" 

“Not a particle." 

“Then you needn't be afraid — there's nothing 
in it. That fellow's a wizard. . . . I'll bring 

out another nurse tomorrow—but—er — keep 
that poem under cover. Better not even speak 
of it," he added, with another glance at the walls 
and ceiling. “You know this place does have a 
suspicious look, and it would need only an addi¬ 
tional hint to fire the imagination of any super¬ 
stitious person. How'd you come to buy it any¬ 
way?" 

“Just a freak notion of mine." 

[ 205 ] 


“Get rid of it! Get rid of it, my boy! It’s too 
far out for you. If I had nothing more than a 
professional interest in you I should never come 
so far out. How’s the girl? Is she useful? 
She thinks you’re a wonder. I told her she could 
cook your food and serve it. — I had to — to satis¬ 
fy her. She’s smart — smart as a steel-trap.— 
You’ve got a jewel there—hang onto her. 

. . . You’re getting on fine. See you in a 

day or two. Good-by.” And catching up his 
bag he breezed out like a gust of wind. He had 
one of those personalities that seems to fill the 
room with its presence, and when it leaves you 
are conscious of a sudden void, as if the very 
furniture had taken flight. 

In the late afternoon Chops came to my door 
and announced that the man he had seen in the 
road was at the back door, asking for work. 

“Bring him up, Chops,—I’ll talk to him.” 

“You think it’s safe?” he asked, haltingly. 

“Yes; if he really wants work, it’s safe, and if 
he doesn’t, it’s better to have it out with him now 
than it would be to turn him away and have him 
return in the night.” 

In a few moments Chops brought up a roughly 
dressed man of about twenty-five, who slouched 
into the room, carrying a checked cap. I mo¬ 
tioned him to a chair, and drawing up another 

[ 206 ] 


Chops sat down within easy reach at his side. 
He shot a fierce glance at Chops, then slapped 
his cap against his knee. 

“You are looking for work, sir?” I asked. 

“Yes — I heard you wanted a man.” 

“Have you been out of a job for long?” 

“About two weeks.” 

“Not much accustomed to manual labor, are 
you?” 

“I can do most anything on a farm.” 

“But your hands — they look as if you had 
been more than two weeks out of hard service.” 
He twitched his hands nervously and closed his 
fingers, but said nothing. I cast a sly glance at 
Chops, whose eyes were glued on the fellow, with 
feline alertness. 

“Are you very hard-up?” 

“I need work.” 

“Why don't you pawn that diamond ring?” 

He looked down at it pensively. —“My mother 
gave me that.” 

“It took you sometime to find this house — 
since early morning, I take it, when my man here 
saw you coming up the road.” 

“I've been to other places,” he said sullenly. 

“We had a man here, but he was taken away 
by the constable this morning. He came in at 
night, without knowing that this house is con- 

[ 207 ] 


stantly guarded. Poor fellow, he was pretty 
badly used up, but he'll probably recover." 

The stranger looked up, bewildered. 

“Say, what's that got to do with me? You 
must be talking in riddles." 

“No — I'm giving you a hint. Chops, show 
the man out, and point out constable Henneker's 
place down in the valley; he's looking for a man." 

Not long after, Higby came in, followed by 
Chops and the man I had just interviewed. The 
latter halted at the door and stood with Chops. 

“Well, Higby, have you turned detective and 
made a capture in broad daylight?" 

“No, but I've brought ye a good work hand. 
He worked around the neighborhood last year, 
and helped me with my hayin'; so I know he's all 
right. I jest met 'im outside goin' down the 
road." Here the speaker drew nearer and low¬ 
ered his voice. — “I had a hard time gettin' 'im t' 
come back; he said he hed already see'd you, and 
he thought because ye was sick abed ye wasn't 
quite right in yer head. But I tole him it was 
all right." 

I called to Chops to give the man some supper 
and fix up a room for him. 

Higby," said I, “the man was right. In the 
first place, anyone who is right in his head 
wouldn't live in this house; and secondly, no or- 

[ 208 ] 


dinary man could live here for long without go¬ 
ing so wrong in his head that he’d take fright at 
his own shadow. This place has become so in¬ 
fested with crooks and uncanny mysteries that 
I’m threatened with a total loss of all faculty for 
sane reasoning. For instance, I was positive that 
man was a criminal, masquerading as a farm 
hand. The perpetual conflict here between nat¬ 
ural and supernatural forces is enough to drive 
anyone crazy. This house must have been quiet 
and peaceful enough before I arrived, and why 
the devil is it that all the crooks and evil spirits 
in Christendom feel called upon to hold a camp¬ 
meeting here just on my account! It makes a 
fellow feel like the central figure in a dime novel.” 

"Wall, ye can’t say I didn’t warn ye. And be¬ 
sides, they aint pickin’ on you any more’n they 
hev on everyone else that’s ever tried to live here. 
Up to now, ye’re about th’ luckiest one thet’s 
tried it; but I reckon it’s only because yer time 
haint come yit. The devil uses this house jest th’ 
same as a spider sets his web fer a fly, and when 
he sees thet ye’re stuck fast he comes and gits ye. 
So far, he’s only got you by one arm, and ye’d 
better take my advice and clear out afore ye get 
tangled up any worse. I wish ye’d decide t’ give 
it up right off, and buy some other place here¬ 
abouts, or else build one. Unless ye’re bullet 

[ 209 ] 


proof and sickness proof and sperit proof, it’s 
only a question of time when some of 'em will git 
ye fer keeps. Ye know I aint tryin't' scare ye — 
it's only th' honest t’ God's truth I'm a-tellin' ye." 

“You did give me a timely warning," I ad¬ 
mitted, “and I suppose you think it was only my 
stubbornness that kept me here. But neither good 
nor evil spirits inhabit any particular place; and 
as for bad luck, if it gets after a fellow he can't 
escape it, no matter where he goes. All he can 
do is sit tight, as Job did, until the storm is over." 

Higby pushed his chair back, and biting off 
a great chew of tobacco, he stretched first one 
arm, then the other, like a man preparing for 
some herculean task. 

“But don't th' Good Book say t' keep away 
from the very appearance of evil ? And haint ye 
seen enough evil here t' satisfy ye thet it aint no 
fit place fer a Baptist Camp-meetin' ? Would ye 
defy th' Good Book's warnin' jest fer th' sake of 
tryin' t’ make yerself believe ye know'd more'n 
th' Prophets thet wrote it? If ye're huntin' peace 
and quiet, ye want to go whar peace and quiet is; 
but if ye're huntin' trouble ye've sure come to its 
original breedin' place. Ye know eggs don't 
hatch in a cold nest, 'thout somethin' t' set on 'em 
or keep 'em warm. This house is all right when 
it's let alone, but the minit someone comes in and 

[ 210 ] 


warms it up, trouble begins t’ hatch out right off. 
And if ye want my honest opinion, I think yer 
worries are only jest in the hatchin’ stage; and 
my advice to ye is t’ move away afore their pin 
feathers begin’t’ sprout. Ye couldn’t make this 
ole house livable if ye turned it inside out and 
made a hotel of it; ’cause th’ more people ye have 
about, th’ more pestersome the sperits will get 
and they wont give ye no peace, day or night.” 

Higby ran his fingers through his hair and 
tapped the back of his head thoughtfully, endeav¬ 
oring to awaken some further argumentative 
ammunition. After the manner of convincing 
orators who clinch their arguments with some 
maxim or illustrative incident, he closed his dis¬ 
course in this wise: — 

“O’ course ye know I don’t believe in coverin’ 
up nothin’ when a man’s life is in such danger 
as yours is. Thar’s been deaths here from small¬ 
pox, and yaller fever, and all sorts of awful 
diseases; and when them germs gets into th’ 
walls of an old house ye know it’s well nigh im¬ 
possible ever t’ git rid of ’em. They jest lay 
dormant like a woodchuck until th’ time comes 
fer ’em to come to life; and a human bein’ is jest 
th’ same to them as a cabbage patch is to a hun¬ 
gry woodchuck after he’s laid in his den all win¬ 
ter. Why, I remember twenty years ago th’ was 

[ 2ii ] 


a whole big family moved in here, and it wasn’t 
no time afore th’ man slipped down hill on the 
ice and broke his leg. That same winter while 
he was sick one of the children died with the 
diphtheria, and two more died with the scarlet 
fever; and the next spring when th’ ghosts got 
warmed and got to cuttin’ up capers, he took his 
sick wife and the one kid he hed left, and scooted 
fer his life.” 


[ 2X2 ] 


CHAPTER XII 


A man rendered hors de combat is apt to be¬ 
come more cautious of his welfare than was his 
wont when in the vigor of robust health, with 
action turning a deaf ear to prudence; and so 
Higby’s last warning, though more or less a con¬ 
tinuation of his first, caught me in a more re¬ 
ceptive mood than before. Therefore I began 
seriously to weigh the probabilities of recovering 
my strength and getting away, against the pos¬ 
sible mischief of some intervening fate. The re¬ 
sult was a night of restlessness, broken by short 
intermittent periods of sleep. It was a warm 
night, and Minnie had thoughtfully left my hall 
door ajar, that she might hear my bell in case I 
wanted anything. 

The moon in its first receding quarter made 
fitful peeps through the rifts of hurrying clouds, 
lighting the room now and again for a short in¬ 
terval, then suddenly all would become as black 
as a dungeon. 

Outside, the frogs, whipporwills and owls were 
[ 213 ] 


busily chanting their inharmonious melodies, but 
inside, the house was as silent as a tomb. With 
attentive ear I listened in vain for the whispering, 
creaking, crawling noises so graphically described 
by the late nurse. The opiate had worn off, my 
shoulder was paining more than usual, and after 
many dragging hours of lonely unrest I was on 
the point of calling for the lamp to be lighted, 
when all at once my nerves were set aquiver by 
a muffled sound that came from some distant part 
of the house. I strained my ears and presently 
it was repeated, this time clear and unmistakable. 
It was the low moaning sob of a woman, — per¬ 
haps Minnie, either in a nightmare, or awake, 
sobbing out her pent-up sorrows. Presently this 
conjecture was dispelled by the sound of a man’s 
voice, in hushed tones of remonstrance; then the 
sobbing became more articulate, and the man’s 
voice subsided. The room was black, and I lay 
there helpless, my blood frozen with terror, my 
heart thumping like a trip-hammer, when of a 
sudden the moon broke through the clouds and 
flooded the room with light. I started at the 
sound of a creaking board, and turning I saw 
the form of Chops framed in the connecting door¬ 
way, his white nightshirt loosely tucked in at the 
waistband of his trousers, which he had hastily 
got into. 


[ 2I 4 ] 


“Did you hear that noise ?" he whispered. 

“Yes, it was a woman crying—probably Miss 
Sherwin. — Run!" He dashed out the door, and 
for endless seconds I listened in suspense without 
hearing another sound, except the impact of 
Chops with some piece of hall furniture that he 
had collided with in the dark. When he returned 
he said that Miss Sherwin was not in her room; 
but her light was burning, and her bed had not 
been slept in. “I can't leave you alone to look 
for her," he added; “something might happen to 
you." 

By this time a gnawing anxiety was fairly con¬ 
suming me.— 

“Lock both my doors and search the house.— 
Be quick! She may be in danger!" 

He obeyed with dispatch, and again I waited, 
and waited. At length I heard the key turn in 
the lock, and Chops came in. He reported hav¬ 
ing met Miss Sherwin coming up from down¬ 
stairs. She had beckoned him into the library, 
known as the Poet's Study, and explained that 
she had been reading late; as she was about to 
retire she heard a noise below, and had gone down 
to see if the doors were locked. She detained 
Chops in the library explaining and talking to 
him for at least five minutes. 

I concluded that Chops had not wakened in 

[ 215 ] 


time to hear the man's voice; also that although 
Minnie had decoyed him off the track and deceiv¬ 
ed him into believing that nothing was amiss, she 
had probably kept strictly within the bounds of 
truth, so far as she had informed him at all. 
Doubtless her brother had appeared, either by 
appointment, or more likely by surprise, and the 
two having been alarmed by Chops' first sally in¬ 
to the hall, the brother had fled, and Minnie came 
up and engaged Chops' attention while the in¬ 
truder got clear of the premises. But to avoid 
placing Minnie at a disadvantage with Chops, I 
kept this surmise to myself. 

Minnie's room fronted on the road, with an 
exposure on the side overlooking a gateway 
through the wall leading out to a dense grove, 
and quite possibly she might have seen the man 
approaching, and recognizing him in the moon¬ 
light, have gone down to meet him. What the 
purpose of his visit was—to see his sister, or to 
ascertain what had become of his emissary, or to 
carry out his threat against me — was a matter 
of pure conjecture. But whatever his motive, 
Minnie had intercepted him, and probably ex¬ 
plained matters. Had he been bent on reaching 
me she could easily have threatened to scream and 
arouse the household. 

For the remainder of the night I lay awake 
[ 216 ] 


tracing the sequence of harrowing events that led 
up to this last episode without, however, being 
able to convince myself that the great climax had 
yet been reached. As one appalling clap of thun¬ 
der succeeds another in a violent electric storm, 
without the least warning as to when or where 
the lightning will strike, so the nerve-racking 
events here followed one another in such rapid 
succession that they kept one in a perpetual state 
of unrest. At daybreak Minnie peeped in at the 
door and seeing me wide awake she came in, 
looking as fresh as a June rose. — 

“Fm afraid I kept you awake with my night 
prowling,” she laughed. 

“No, not at all. Chops was a trifle restless, 
but being a light sleeper, and more vigilant than 
1, that is not strange.” 

“I'm so glad you were not alarmed; and how 
fortunate it was that your visitor yesterday turn¬ 
ed out to be a real farm hand! It gives one a 
renewed sense of security to know that every 
stranger who comes here is not a disguised vil¬ 
lain. I hope you are over the summit of your 
troubles. At least I feel more free from anxiety 
than I have since leaving the boarding house.” 

“And you show it, too; I've never seen you 
with such a glowing countenance. It's a better 
tonic than Dr. Bankhart's pills.” 

[ 217 ] 


She adjusted my pillows, smoothed the bed¬ 
covers, and with fawnlike grace she glided about 
the room setting things in order, chatting softly 
the while. It had been the dream of her happy 
childhood to live in the country. She enjoyed 
feeding the hens, and had already gathered more 
than a dozen eggs. If contentment is the great¬ 
est asset in life, she was richer than an oil baron. 
She remarked whaf a prize I had in Chops, and 
what a good whole-souled character Mr. Higby 
was. 

“Yes,” I agreed, “you and Higby seem to har¬ 
monize perfectly in your estimates of each other 
— and I agree with you both. He never came 
but two or three times to see me before you ar¬ 
rived, but since that day he's been almost a con¬ 
stant attendant,—bringing hens, doughnuts, 
home made sausage and what not.” 

She laughed merrily. “Mr. Higby and I are 
good friends because he is a friend of yours. But 
if you were in good health he'd probably be less 
attentive,” she said with artless simplicity. 

My eyes followed her movements about the 
room as if attracted by some magnet in her supple 
figure, and all the while my thoughts were busily 
engaged in making an appraisement of her imma¬ 
culate toilette, her classic features, her soft ripples 
of laughter, her complete self-possession. The bit- 

1218 ] 


ing blasts of adversity had not sullied these charms, 
all of which she bore with unconscious grace and 
naturalness. She was as attentive and sympathetic 
as a sweetheart, yet as distant and unapproacha¬ 
ble as a wood nymph. Somehow I could not think 
of her as a housekeeper, but rather as some fairy 
god-mother whom Providence had sent as a sort 
of compensatory offset against my helpless pre¬ 
dicament and the plague-smitten house. While 
she never overstepped the boundaries of her 
position, her manner, always gracious and com¬ 
pliant, was never menial. Instead of lowering 
herself to a position of servility she exalted the 
position to her own level, and maintained for 
herself and her work the same degree of dignity 
and respect as if she were at the head of her 
father’s household, or of her own home. If given 
a lead she joined animatedly in the discussion of 
any subject, and though considerate and defer¬ 
ential toward the opinions of others, she did not 
hesitate to express her own views, always sup¬ 
porting them by sound reasoning. Her attitude 
toward life recalled to my mind a remark once 
made by a young attorney of the middle-west, 
who afterwards achieved national distinction as 
a judge in the higher courts. In trying one of 
his first jury cases he was opposed by an attorney 
many years his senior, who had at one time served 

[ 219 ] 


as district judge, and despite the fact that he had 
lost his position on the bench he still retained 
an ample measure of those qualities for which he 
was best known, — foremost among them, a prodi¬ 
gious estimate of his own importance, which he 
manifested by a pompous dignity and an uncon¬ 
querable self-esteem. A towering physical pro¬ 
duct of the West, he had imbibed a liberal quanti¬ 
ty of that draughty atmosphere—commonly 
called wind — for which certain arid sections of 
the West are noted, especially on hot days; and 
this, when aroused to fever heat, he blew out in 
withering blasts upon all persons and objects that 
provoked his ill-will. 

During the progress of the trial the old ex¬ 
judge had been outwitted and outargued on a 
point of law raised by his less experienced op¬ 
ponent, and being still mindful of the great def¬ 
erence paid him by young attorneys during his 
judgeship, it galled him to have the Court rule 
him down and decide in favor of the younger 
contestant; more especially since he had twice 
reminded the Court that while on the bench he 
himself had on several occasions made rulings 
upon the same point. In presenting his client’s 
case to the jury he took occasion to express his 
contempt for the “young whippersnapper” whose 
“juvenility and obtrusive ignorance” had led him 

[ 220 ] 


into the act of presuming to dispute points of law 
with one whose acknowledged wisdom and profes¬ 
sional experience had raised him to an exalted 
position of judicial authority in the community 
at a time “when this young upstart was nothing 
but a common bootblack on the streets.” And 
swelling himself up to his greatest height, with a 
scornful glare at his adversary, he grandiloquent¬ 
ly concluded,— 

“Upon what meat hath this young gutter-bird 
fed, that he has plumed himself with such arrant 
boldness!” 

When the young attorney rose to address the 
jury he paid his respects to his brother-practi¬ 
tioner, whom he said he had always regarded 
with profound veneration — as a man whose hon¬ 
or and success in life he had long looked upon as 
the shining goal of his youthful ambition. “And,” 
said he, “in his statement to you concerning my 
early vocation he has not departed from that un¬ 
flinching veracity and frankness for which he is 
so justly famed. It is true that I was a boot- 
black. — A common bootblack, as he has been 
pleased to designate me, since that is the lowest 
of all human occupations. It is nothing of which 
I am proud; nor yet am I ashamed to own it. It 
was a condition forced upon me by adverse cir¬ 
cumstances. After a long illness my father died 

[ 221 ] 


when I was ten years old, leaving my widowed 
mother almost penniless, with three children,— 
two younger than myself. I was obliged to quit 
school and earn money for bread; and the hum¬ 
ble occupation of blacking boots was the only one 
for which I was qualified. So one day, with my 
mother's aid, I made a crude box, which I slung 
over my shoulder and went to work. In this way 
I supported my mother for three years, until the 
government awarded her a pension — my father 
having been a Civil War veteran. 

“In those times some of my snobbish associates 
scoffed at me on the streets and called me a com¬ 
mon bootblack; and although their contempt was 
not always expressed with that dignified elo¬ 
quence and conscious superiority which my gifted 
compeer has displayed, it was none the less humil¬ 
iating. I did not like being called a bootblack. 
I am sorry now to be so eloquently reminded of 
those unhappy days. But among all the painful 
memories of those cheerless times there is one 
compensating thought that always comes to me: 
I gave to my work the best that was in me; and 
when I blacked boots I blacked them well." 


[ 222 ] 


CHAPTER XIII 


After breakfast the new man was set to work 
in the yard, and Chops went to the village to get 
a fresh supply of provisions, and to bring the 
hired man's valise. Henneker looked in to see 
how things were going. He said his man had 
been bound over to the next meeting of the grand 
jury and was now in the county jail. He had 
seemed deeply repentant, and expressed the hope 
that I would not be too hard on him when it came 
time to testify against him. 

“I see you've got a man," observed Henneker. 
“I know 'im; he's a good worker. Likes to sleep 
mornin's, but he's willing—and thet helps a 
heap, ye know." 

Henneker lounged into an easy chair, rolled a 
cigarette, and stretching his long legs he re¬ 
clined with a sigh as he puffed a cloud of smoke 
ceilingward. 

“Queer people, these farm hands," he grum¬ 
bled. “Th' time was when a hired man worked 
from sun-up to sun-down fer eighteen a month; 
but now fer sixty a month they stop work th' 

[ 223 ] 


middle o’ th’ afternoon, and kick because they 
don’t git beefsteak and pie three times a day. 
Queer, too, how things change. I remember th’ 
fust job I ever had. I quit school at fifteen and 
went to work fer a feller on the same place I 
own now, at five dollars a month, and found; and 
now th’ same feller thet hired me is workin’ fer me 
fer sixty dollars a month, and found. Now ye 
might think thet was kinder hard luck fer th’ 
other feller, but th’ funny thing about it is, he 
can save a heap more money in a year than I 
can; and I reckon if I didn’t pick up a dollar now 
and then in constable fees, I’d soon be workin’ fer 
him again. Fact is, I hev t’ work a heap harder 
now to git enough money t’ pay th’ hired man 
than I did when I was a-workin’ twelve hours a 
day fer him. The only way I’m better off than 
him, is thet I hev th’ fun o’ bein’ boss o’ th’ job; — 
but he’s th’ one thet banks th’ money.” 

“And still you wouldn’t change positions with 
him, would you?” 

“No, I reckon not. I calculate thet poor devil 
thet I took over to jail is a heap better off, with a 
bed and three good meals a day, than a lot of 
fellers lookin’ fer jobs outside, but I don’t reckon 
many of ’em would be keen about changin’ places 
with ’im. . . . But th’ way things is shapin’ 

up, it ’pears to me like it won’t be long afore 

[ 224 ] 


everybody will want t' be bosses, like them Red 
geezers we read about over in Russia, thet kill 
off everybody thet's got anything, so's they can 
get it away from 'em. But if thet kind of murder 
and starvation is what they call Socialism, I'm 
strong fer law and order, and if I had my way 
I'd shoot every one o' them trouble-makin' birds 
th' minit he popped his head up in this country. 
Th' dang lazy loafers won't work themselves, and 
the worst of it is, they won't let nobody else work, 
if they can help it. Th' was one o' them fire- 
eaters thet made a speech in the town hall at the 
village last winter, an' he tole th' people they was 
all crazy because they worked so hard, when they 
could hev anything they wanted by jest risin' up 
and demandin' their rights. Rights! What kind 
o' rights hev they got here anyway, 'ceptin' th' 
right t' work and earn an honest livin' like th' 
rest of us? But afore he got half through he 
found out he'd come to the wrong neighborhood 
t' preach sech damfoolery. 

“The trouble started when some feller throwed 
an egg at 'im from th' back end o' the hall. The 
egg missed its mark, but it landed right agin th' 
stumick of a big fat feller thet was settin' up on 
the stage, and from th' way he curled up his nose 
and sniffed, I made up my mind thet th' hen thet 
laid thet egg must hev a bad breath. Th' feller 

[ 225 ] 


thet was makin' th' speech called th' feller thet 
throwed th’ egg some kind of a name, and then 
the rumpus was on. A whole passel of fellers 
made a rush fer th’ stage, but afore they got 
thar th’ feller hed skinned out th' back door, and 
no one haint never see'd 'im since. Here in this 
burg we sort o’ pride ourselves on bein' reg'lar 
Americans, and we don't haf ter have no hot¬ 
headed furriner come here and tell us how to run 
our affairs. Ye know in th’ last hundred years 
this little town, accordin' to population, has sent 
out more soldiers than any place in th' state." 

Henneker consulted his watch. — 

“Gosh — it's most noon! Reckon I'd better be 
gettin' along." 

In the afternoon the doctor brought out a new 
nurse, and while she was being shown to her 
room, he came in to look me over. 

“I've brought you a new nurse, and if you 
keep that damned poetry out of sight, you may 
be able to keep this one. I don't know how you'll 
like her, but it's hard to get anyone in these times 
of influenza, so I brought what I could get. It’s 
an awful place to bring a nurse to — out here in 
these wilds." 

“Doctor, it's an awful place to be sick in, too — 
without a nurse. You know I didn't pick it out 
for a hospital site." 


[ 226 ] 


“No, and I want you to hurry up and get well, 
and out of here just as soon as you can get on your 
feet. I’ve been thinking it over the past day or 
so; it’s no place for anyone but a hermit or a 
crank. If your father were alive he’d have your 
sanity looked into by an alienist.” 

“Poor Dad! — I should never think of enter¬ 
taining an irreverent thought of him, but if he 
were living I’d be willing to give him the whole 
farm just to have him come out here and acci¬ 
dentally run onto that poem some stormy night. 
He always hated poetry anyway, except Burns’, 
which he adored, because its author was some¬ 
thing like a thirty-second cousin of his mother’s 
grandfather. 

“You know Dad’s favorite maxim was, 'It’s a 
bad rule that doesn’t work both ways.’ When he 
wanted me to do anything against my will, he al¬ 
ways jollied me by saying I was so good I’d surely 
come to some bad end, — and when I did any¬ 
thing against his will, he reversed the order and 
said I was so bad that the law of general averages 
would certainly bring me to some good end.” 

“Yes, your father was more practical than he 
was poetical; if he hadn’t been, and you’d had to 
earn your living, you wouldn’t — at your age 
anyway—have had the money and leisure to 
indulge in such wild follies as this.” 

[ 227 ] 


“You seem to appraise my earning power about 
the same as you value my judgment in selecting 
a farm, which, I take it, is rather low.” 

“Not at all, not at all! You've done wonder¬ 
fully well for a pampered and only son of a rich 
parent. Many a youth has been deprived of a 
useful career through inheriting less than what 
you have.” 

“Rather a left-handed compliment, Doctor, but 
thank you just the same.” 

“But,” he argued, “inherited wealth is a big 
handicap to a young man, and I have the greatest 
admiration for anyone who succeeds under its 
devitalizing influence. Do you suppose, for in¬ 
stance, that I should have become a slave to my 
profession had I been your father's only son?” 

In this he voiced my own views more eloquently 
than I could have expressed them myself; but 
there was something about my bed-ridden con¬ 
dition that made me feel contrary and disputa¬ 
tious ; therefore for the sake of argument I took 
issue with him. — 

“Hold on, Doctor,” I said — “I'm not so sure 
about that. A few years ago I might have 
agreed with you, but I've gone about some in that 
time, and the more I see of rich young fellows 
the more I lean to the theory that inherited wealth 
or social position, instead of being a devitalizing 

[ 228 ] 


force, merely emphasizes one's inherent qualities. 
Fortune—who is a wise old dame—seems to 
have a sort of working agreement with Minerva, 
and she usually looks after those among her chil¬ 
dren who are least capable of looking after them¬ 
selves, just as you'd make provision for a puny, 
weak-minded child, and let the robust, strong- 
minded one take care of himself. . . . In¬ 

herited wealth affects most people much the same 
as liquor — used to. I needn't remind you that 
liquor doesn't give a person a bad disposition; it 
merely accentuates the qualities that are already 
there. If a man is naturally clever and witty, 
liquor will kindle his wit; if he is naturally slug¬ 
gish, disagreeable or parsimonius, it will likewise 
heighten those characteristics. You know better 
than I that its effects are not creative, they are 
merely stimulative. If a man is drunk and ugly, 
the popular supposition is that he's ugly because 
he's drunk; if he is rich and indolent, the popular 
fallacy is that he's indolent because he's rich. But 
the truth is, that riches will stimulate the aggres¬ 
siveness and usefulness of an ambitious person 
in the same measure that they will encourage in¬ 
dolence and contentment in one who is naturally 
lazy and self-satisfied. To argue that indolence 
is a product of inherited wealth is no more logical 
than to contend that snobbishness is a mark of 

[ 229 ] 


noble birth. Take your own case, for example, — 
it is a part of your inherent nature to benefit 
humanity; and no amount of inherited wealth 
could vitiate those noble God-given qualities of 
mind with which you are endowed. I wish I 
could do something big—of some account. Even 
with our difference in years, I'd gladly change 
places with you.” 

“You're getting me out beyond my depth.— 
Stick out your tongue—let me see it. How's 
your appetite? Do you sleep well?” 

“I eat everything I can get hold of, and sleep 
badly, thank you.” 

“A perfectly normal condition for you — you're 
well on the road to recovery.” 

“But, say, Doctor, don't forget to tell that new 
nurse about your instructions to Minnie concern¬ 
ing my diet. I'm quite satisfied with my rations, 
and we don't want any conflict between the wom- 
en. 

He looked at me with a quizzical grin. 

“Yes, I'll tell her.” 

The doctor walked across to the window and 
stood looking out. — “Who's this man you have 
here in the yard?” 

“My new farmer.” 

“Looks more like a highwayman to me. 
Where'd you find him?” 

[ 230 ] 


“That’s what I thought when he first came, 
but after Higby recommended him I decided that 
my judgment has become warped here in this 
house.” 

“No doubt—no doubt it has. This place would 
warp most anything,” he said, studying the sur¬ 
roundings. 

After the doctor’s departure I sent Chops up 
to the attic to bring down the accumulation of 
papers, books and other litter that we had found 
in the old chest, thinking to while away an hour 
or so in going over it. He stacked it all up by 
the bedside in a pile that would have filled a cou¬ 
ple of bushel baskets, then sat down by it and 
handed me the articles piece by piece. They 
proved to be far more interesting than I had sup¬ 
posed. There were old letters — some from men 
of distinction—statesmen, military leaders and 
churchmen, among whom were Livingston, Mor¬ 
ris, Wilkinson, Breckenridge and others. One 
letter, written by some partisan patriot, contained 
a lengthy commentary on the trial of Aaron Burr 
and Blennerhassett for conspiracy against the 
government, avowing that both were likely to be 
hanged for treason. Another told of Fulton’s 
first steamboat trip from New York to Albany, 
accomplished in thirty-two hours, and the author 
ventured to predict that if Fulton’s project sue- 

[ 231 ] 


ceeded merchandise might eventually be trans¬ 
ported by steam power. 

There was a varied assortment of old school 
books, such as spellers, histories, arithmetics and 
grammars, some without covers, and all well 
thumbed and marked, with some pages missing, 
others torn or decorated with crude pencil draw¬ 
ings with which school children are wont to adorn 
their text books during study hours to improve 
their minds while the teacher is occupied with 
class recitations. Most of the volumes contained 
the autographs of one or more owners scrawled in 
juvenile handwriting, usually followed by the 
words “His book/’ “Her book,” or “My book.” 
On the inside front cover of a hard-used copy of 
Caesar, the first few pages of which were missing, 
appeared the following lines, written in a round 
feminine hand, — 

All are dead who wrote it, 

All are dead who spoke it, 

All will die who learn it, 

Blessed death, they earn it! 

and underneath were the significant words, “My 
sentiments!” 

At length I came upon an old arithmetic, which 
I held propped up in the dent of a pillow on my 
stomach listlessly turning the frayed leaves with 
the thumb and forefinger of my one available 

[ 232 ] 


hand, when suddenly my eye rested upon the 
name, “Gabriel Fletcher. — His book,” written in 
a large, scraggly hand, and underneath it the 
date, 1795. 

“Hey, Chops! here's my great-grandfather's 
name! Look!” I exclaimed, planting my finger 
underneath the signature. Chops stretched his 
neck and stared curiously, though of course the 
writing signified nothing to him, since he could 
neither read nor write English. 

“Great Scott! Do you suppose my great-grand¬ 
father ever lived in this infernal house? Who 
knows but what his bones are at the bottom of 
that well!” 

Higby had declared that he wouldn't dare come 
inside the house if a forty-second cousin of his 
had ever died in it, and here was my own direct 
antecedent's signature treasured among its relics! 
To think that the ancient castle of the puritanic 
Fletchers had been subverted into a ghoul- 
infested den,—a rendezvous for thieves! My 
ancestors would push the sod off their graves if 
they knew it! 

I laid the sacred tome reverently aside and with 
renewed interest continued my search through 
the whole pile, without, however, finding any 
other trace of my grandsire's chirography, or any 
further reference to his name. But I had already 

[ 233 ] 


found enough to sharpen my inquisitiveness, 
which had been kept pretty well edged during 
the past few weeks. 

Of course it could easily have happened that 
there was another Gabriel Fletcher — the country 
was full of Fletchers—or it might be that the 
book was presented or loaned to some former 
occupant; but that was about the date when my 
great-grandsire would have been in school, and 
I was not concerned with any other premise than 
that he had owned this book, studied it, written 
his name in it, and preserved it in that house for 
his posterity. Perhaps his residence there had 
antedated the evil days that had fallen upon the 
house's occupants. At least I could not conceive 
the idea that that pious old patriot's spirit could 
possibly have any common association with those 
evil specters that had wrought such havoc in the 
past hundred years. 

It is the belief of many learned scientists that 
there is a sub-conscious force that operates on the 
minds of many human beings and compels an 
involuntary compliance with certain commands or 
desires of the departed. For example, although 
I had not the slightest belief in spiritualism as 
practiced by certain necromancers through de¬ 
ceptive agencies, I had oftentimes been aware of 
some coercive power directing my thoughts and 

[ 234 ] 


actions along lines contrary to what might rea¬ 
sonably be regarded as my natural bent, and 
which my mother afterwards told me were con¬ 
sonant with certain pronounced characteristics of 
my maternal grandfather, who died before I was 
born. Possibly it was this imperceptible atavistic 
force, transmitted from a more distant sire, that 
directed my attention to the advertisement, and 
later persuaded me to buy the old homestead and 
rescue it from the bad repute into which it had 
fallen. Indeed there was no other discernible 
reason why I should have attached myself to it 
after so unfavorable an impression as it made on 
me at first sight. If my first impression, derived 
from a view of the outside was unpleasant, my 
next feeling on entering the house was one of 
revulsion, and my feeling on leaving it was one of 
great relief. Notwithstanding this, while enroute 
to the city some strange and inexplicable impulse 
dissolved the objectionable features and prompted 
me to buy the place and put it in order. Against 
its lonely and spooky aspect this silent voice 
argued that it could easily be transformed into 
a snug, comfortable summer retreat. 

Call it atavism, or what you will, I was im¬ 
pelled to buy the house and move into it with the 
full consciousness that it was the most desolate, 
the most depressing, the most repellent, and al- 

[ 235 ] 


together the least desirable abode I had ever 
seen. Moreover, its undesirableness was greatly 
intensified by Higby’s supplemental disclosures, 
and further corroborated by everything that had 
happened there from the day I took possession. I 
had deluded myself into thinking that my reso¬ 
luteness in staying on proceeded from an inor¬ 
dinate curiosity; but it must require something 
more deep-rooted and compelling than mere mor¬ 
bid inquisitiveness to induce a man with a con¬ 
versable nature to immure himself in such a place 
without household help or companions other than 
an Egyptian valet. With all due respect for 
the wishes of my ancient progenitor I’d rather he 
hadn’t picked on me to do his house-cleaning. 

My lifelong friend Phil Barton openly declared 
me to be crazy; the doctor accused me of great 
folly — though in his heart he probably shared 
Phil’s honest conviction — and everyone else to 
whom I had confided the matter was equally out¬ 
spoken; yet I felt as sane as any of them — and 
doubtless was, except on this one head. 

When Chops had cleared away the debris the 
nurse came in, uniformed and ready for business. 
I use the word business advisedly; because I 
thought she looked more businesslike than a nurse 
ought to look; and the way she went about her 
work suggested that, with her, nursing was a 

[ 236 ] 


business rather than a profession. She had a 
pointed chin, over which protruded a long, sharp 
nose that stood out like a beacon light, illuminating 
a pair of catlike eyes, overtopped by a rubicund, 
heavy-browed forehead which gradually ascended 
to a summit crowned with a great coil of blazing 
red hair. Withal, she had a hungry, crusty look, 
and was still a Miss at fifty or more. 

She began her duties by jerking one of the pil¬ 
lows from under my head and spanking it three 
or four times as if she were punishing a refrac¬ 
tory child; then she stuffed it back in its place 
and taking out the other she repeated the per¬ 
formance. This accomplished she clutched my 
new blue silk puff and giving it a vigorous twitch 
she smoothed it down with a sniff. —“Poor stuff 
for a sick room!” With feet apart and arms 
akimbo she stood gazing about the room, at the 
vacant, discolored walls and the cracked plaster 
overhead, which seemed ready to fall at the least 
vibration. “Musty old place — no conveniences 
here!” she grumbled. 

I watched her, terror-stricken, lest she detect 
something dislikable about me. No wonder the 
doctor had felt himself called upon to explain the 
difficulties of getting a good nurse; or was he 
playing a trick on me and trying to hasten me 
away, even before I got well ? Ah me, I thought, 

[ 237 ] 


this is an additional penalty for what the doctor 
mildly termed as one of my follies. I began im¬ 
mediately to cast about for some excuse for get¬ 
ting rid of this malcontent without hurting her 
feelings. The poem! That would fix her. When 
she left the room I called Chops and told him to 
put the paper under my pillow. 

That night when the nurse had finished her 
duties and was about to leave the room, I asked 
in a casual sort of way if she believed in ghosts. 
She stopped short, wheeled about and stood facing 
me, with both hands planted firmly on her ample 
hips, which stood out like a pair of bastionets 
fortifying a waist not much larger than her neck. 

“Funny you should speak of it. My first 
thought when I stepped inside this house, was 
that it seemed awfully spooky. ,, 

My heartbeats quickened with joyful anticipa¬ 
tion. But poor Minnie — she was threatened with 
the loss of another night’s sleep. 

“Of course,” said I, “you understand I never 
believed in such nonsensical illusions, but a di¬ 
abolical sort of poem that I found tucked away 
here has set me thinking; and if anything should 
happen, I don’t want you to blame me for not 
warning you.” 

For a short moment I suffered some pangs of 
conscience; it seemed a pity to frighten the poor 
[ 238 ] 


old girl to death, for she probably needed the job. 
But another look at her decided me, and I drew 
forth the forbidding paper from its hiding-place. 
After a long and graphic recital of the house’s 
hard traditions, and the low esteem in which it 
was held in local circles I proceeded to read the 
ominous lines with all the impressiveness I could 
throw into them. At the finish of the second 
stanza I stole a covert glance at her. She stood 
there with statuesque impassiveness — without 
moving a muscle. I wondered if she were struck 
dumb. I went on to the end, and looking up at 
her I pronounced the last line with the usual 
dramatic emphasis. 

“Is that all?” she asked. 

“Isn’t it enough?” 

“Pish! I don’t believe in such humbuggery!” 
And turning about she whisked out of the room. 


[ 239 ] 


CHAPTER XIV 


I was awakened at dawn by the flapping wings 
and lusty voice of Higby’s rooster, the first heart¬ 
ening farm note that had reached my ears, except 
the usual chorus of birds that twittered busily 
among the trees outside my windows. There are 
few experiences more enchanting to the soul than 
to awake after a good night’s rest and lie in bed 
listening to the chorus of a variety of song birds 
chanting their melodies outside your window on 
a balmy spring morning. 

Minnie came in before the nurse was astir, and 
the unwonted cordiality with which I greeted her 
I attributed to my reliance upon her as an antidote 
for the new nurse. Her presence had hitherto 
been cheery and companionable, her thoughtful 
attentiveness had been comforting; but now I 
felt more dependent on her than ever. As light 
dispels darkness, so her quiet, refined personality 
seemed to radiate an influence that was peculiarly 
inspiriting to one with a distempered mind or body, 
therefore to me she was doubly inspiring. I 

[ 240 ] 


wanted to tell her that she should have been the 
mistress of a noble mansion, but I compromised 
by saying — 

“Minnie, you should have been a nurse. — Or 
that is, I mean you would be a great success as a 
nurse.” 

“Thank you. I hope you won't be disappointed 
in your new one.” For a second I weighed her 
answer, endeavoring to determine if it contained 
any veiled meaning, either of injury or disap¬ 
pointment. 

“At least this one seems to have better staying 
qualities than the other,” I answered absently. 
“But what I was trying to get at, is that your 
presence is so restful and your conversation so 
stimulating that it sort of makes a fellow forget 
that he's sick. Is that better ?” 

She had fluffed my pillows, smoothed out the 
disarranged bedcovers, and stood smiling down 
at me. 

“I am so glad to be able partly to repay your 
kindness by some slight service; it makes me feel 
that I am not altogether useless.” 

“You can put me in your debt by doing me 
another service: get rid of that hatchet-faced 
nurse.” 

Her face brightened, and her soft blue eyes 
beamed expressively. “But have you given her 

[ 241 ] 


a fair trial?” she asked, a little flushed with em¬ 
barrassment at having betrayed her emotions. 

“Yes, — the hardest sort of trial. I tried the 
poem on her last night, but she’s phantom-proof. 
No ghost would ever have the boldness to attack 
her, even in the dark, and the worst of it is, she 
knows it. She probably wouldn’t be needed here 
more than two or three weeks, at most, and it will 
be a matter of economy to give her a couple of 
weeks’ salary, if you can get her out gracefully. 
If she stays I shall be sick all summer. If you 
feel any delicacy in the matter, get Higby, or 
Chops, or someone, to conjure up a story or some 
scheme to get rid of her. As long as you stick 
by me I don’t particularly need a nurse anyhow; 
and what’s the use having her around just to 
spoon out a few drops of medicine three or four 
times a day.” 

“I will do my best for you, and I should think 
your generous offer to pay her for services un¬ 
rendered ought to appease the most exacting con¬ 
science.” 

“And then sometime, Minnie, when you feel 
equal to the occasion, I want you to come and sit 
here at my bedside and tell me more about your¬ 
self. Now that you’ve told me part, I hope you 
will consider that as an abrogation of our agree¬ 
ment to keep silence. Curiosity, like hunger, 

[ 242 ] 


must be satisfied, or it becomes painful; and it 
would be cruel — it would be positively cruel not 
to feed a sick man, — now wouldn’t it?” 

She smiled acquiescently. 

“You make it impossible to refuse your request, 
even at the great risk of losing your good es¬ 
teem.” 

The nurse now came in, and seeing Minnie 
near the bedside she stopped short and glared at 
her fiercely. I wondered if the two were old 
enemies; but it turned out that the nurse’s dis¬ 
pleasure had proceeded from what she regarded 
as an insult to her highly sensitized dignity. 
Without appearing to notice the affront Minnie 
turned to me composedly and smiled. — 

“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher; I will prepare your 
breakfast and serve it immediately.” 

The nurse turned and scowled at her retreat¬ 
ing figure. 

“Well! Of all the insolence that ever I saw! 
One needs come to the country to find such ignor¬ 
ance and unmitigated gall! A common uppish 
housekeeper meddling in a sick patient’s room in 
the morning before the nurse is even out of bed!” 

My first impulse was to explode with laughter; 
my second, to answer her; but fear — yes, sheer 
unadulterated fear — gripped me and held my 
tongue in check. She stared hard at the pillows, 

[ 243 ] 


and I watched her eye as it traveled slowly down 
over the smooth surface of my blue puff, finally 
resting transiently on the bed post at the foot. 
Then turning she looked toward the open door, 
her long thin lips screwed up into a scornful knot. 

“Gone to prepare his breakfast !” 

“Anything wrong?” I asked. She darted a 
quick glance at me, as if she had only just become 
aware of my presence. 

“Anything amiss ?” I repeated. 

“Gone to prepare your breakfast, has she? 
Weill — In all my thirty years of service I have 
never seen such impudence!” 

“And in all your next thirty years of service I 
hope you will never see the like again.” 

“I’ll have that snippy young woman understand 
that I tolerate no interference or incivility from 
inferiors! Like as not she’ll soon be asking me 
what my first name is. It’s getting so now that 
servants not only dictate to their employers, but 
their monstrous presumptuousness carries them 
beyond all bounds, — even to a disrespect for the 
profession.” 

“Yes, it’s monstrous,” I agreed; “we ought to 
organize to prevent it. But you underrate the 
position of the young woman you refer to. She 
is a woman of culture, and she is a privileged 
character in this house. She is at liberty to come 

[ 244 ] 


and go at will, in any part of the house, at any 
hour of the day or night. Her authority here is 
supreme — next only to myself; and anyone em¬ 
ployed in this household, in whatever capacity, is 
subject to her commands.” 

“Oh—I didn’t understand that — I thought 
she was only your housekeeper !” 

The strained situation was relieved by Higby, 
whose heavy boots were heard coming up the 
stairs. I had ordered Chops to dispense with 
all formality in his case, and to send him up un¬ 
announced whenever he called. Therefore he 
walked boldly into the room, barking out a noisy 
“Good Morning!” from the door. He stopped 
short under the glowering eyes of the nurse, as if 
they had been a pair of threatening howitzers. 

“Come right in, Higby; you’re just in time for 
a cup of coffee.” With a shrug of her shoulders 
and a toss of her head, which threatened to dis¬ 
lodge the flaming topknot, the nurse swept ma¬ 
jestically past him and out of the room. Higby’s 
face was a lively caricature as he looked sidewise 
at her vanishing form. Like a horse who senses 
danger, he gave a loud snort, but quickly clapping 
his hand to his mouth he looked to see if she was 
out of hearing. 

“Wall I want to know! Whar did ye git that 
old redbird from?” 


[ 245 ] 


“My new nurse.” 

Higby blew up with laughter. “Yer new 
w-h-a-t? Wall, fer a guess, I'd say ye must be 
gettin' stronger! . . . Didn't appear t' like 

my looks none too well, did she ? Reckon I must 
hev ruffled her feathers my takin' her unawares.” 

“It isn't your looks that she objects to; it's 
only because her orderly procedure was upset this 
morning by Minnie coming in ahead of her and 
smoothing out the bedclothes. You know some 
professional nurses are extremely jealous of their 
prerogatives.” 

“Wall, all I can say is, thet I wish ye a speedy 
recovery. But mebbe I'd better get out if she 
wants to dust up th' room a bit.” 

“No, no— sit still. I feel safer with you here. 
I've been in terror of my life ever since she came 
into the house yesterday. I'm afraid to discharge 
her, and she refuses to leave of her own accord. 
I want you to hatch up some scheme to get her 
away without an unpleasant scene.” 

“Why don't ye try yer poem on her ?” 

“I did; but it isn't strong enough.” 

Higby skewed his mouth and tugged at his 
chin. 

“No, I reckon not; she's too wise fer that. 
Ghosts haint got no terrors fer a lean, hungry- 
lookin' ole bird like her. Even thet ole squaw 

[ 246 ] 


mother’s ghost wouldn’t dast tackle anything like 
thet. But don’t you bother— I’ll talk it over 
with Minnie, and we’ll think up somethin’ afore 
the day’s out.” 

Presently Minnie brought in the breakfast tray. 
I was about to ask her for an extra cup, but she 
had already anticipated me, not only with an ex¬ 
tra cup, but an extra breakfast. Higby squared 
himself around to the little table. 

“This is the second breakfus I’ve et this mornin’, 
but I could never be too full t’ eat one of Miss 
Minnie’s breakfusses.” 

The nurse now appeared at the door, and with 
a sweeping glance at the scene she threw up her 
hands and went off with a contemptuous shrug. 

Higby, who caught sight of her, choked on a 
mouthful of toast he was in the act of swallowing. 

“Thet ole gal is about as uneasy as a cat with 
a wishbone in her throat,” he snickered between 
explosive coughs. 

Breakfast over, Higby soon left, and when 
Minnie had cleared away the dishes and left the 
room the nurse returned. For a brief space she 
stood in the doorway looking disdainfully about. 

“I’m afraid you’ll find this a very irregular 
household. I have meals and callers at all hours, 
and we adhere to no fixed routine.” 

“So I have already observed,” she said, leveling 

[ 247 ] 


her eyes on me, without disturbing the lofty posi¬ 
tion of her chin. 

“You see we lead a very sequestered life here 
and— ” 

“And I guess it’s just as well. ,, 

“I’m afraid I misled you in saying what I did 
about my housekeeper. She is a—” 

“Oh, no — not at all. Professional nurses who 
understand their business have to put up with 
all sorts of conditions. Pve had cases like this 
before, but I make it a principle never to let my 
self-respect interfere with my professional duties. 
My business is to nurse sick people—not to in¬ 
quire into the morals of their servants .” This 
with a biting emphasis on the last word. 

“What I was about to say when you first in¬ 
terrupted me, is that I presume you are accus¬ 
tomed to the more orderly discipline of hospital 
life, and Pm afraid you are not going to like it 
here.” 

“Like it! Well, I should say not.” 

My heart beat for joy; but my triumph was 
short-lived, for in the same breath she continued, 
— “But I work for a living, not because I like it; 
and when a doctor puts me in charge of a case, 
no matter how objectionable it may be, I never 
desert my post until I can get his permission.” 

“You are more courageous than my last nurse; 
[ 248 ] 


she left posthaste the moment she found out the 
house was haunted/' 

“Humph! — she must have been new in the pro¬ 
fession. The innocent young things always make 
up some good excuse when they want to shake 
out of a bad case. But that kind of practice is 
unprofessional. I take everything as it comes — 
the bad along with the good; and I never allow 
the ethics of my patients to prejudice me or con¬ 
taminate my own morals, any more than I allow 
myself to become infected with their other 
diseases. When men are just naturally degen¬ 
erate, even illness doesn't seem to dampen their 
immoral tendencies. But you'd better believe 
that / always keep them at their proper distance," 
she declared with a highly corroborative look, 
which caused me to feel as though she were view¬ 
ing me through a pair of inverted opera glasses. 

Plainly there was nothing more to be said or 
done until the doctor's return, which would not be 
for two or three days. Any further attempt on 
my part to correct her erroneous impressions 
would have served no better purpose than to con¬ 
firm them. Although the situation struck me as 
being more comical than serious, I was in no 
mood for further comedy or controversy; there¬ 
fore I maintained a determined silence and let 
her run down. At length when she had ex- 

[ 249 ] 


hausted her vocabulary — and me as well — in 
extolling her own chastity, and lamenting the 
depravity of others, she volunteered to inform me 
that her name was Miss Franconia Filburn, 
daughter of Phineas Filburn. Her family, she 
said, stood in the foremost ranks of the sturdy 
New Hampshire pioneers, — among the first set¬ 
tlers of Franconia, near the celebrated Franconia 
Notch. . . . “Have you taken offense at 

anything Fve said ?” she finally asked, noting my 
continued reticence. 

“No, not in the least. I make it a practice 
never to take umbrage at the harmless indiscre¬ 
tions of garrulous people.” This remark, which 
was intended to quiet her, had the desired effect, 
but I soon had cause to repent my ironical bold¬ 
ness. She went out the door in high dudgeon, 
and for a while I thought she had gone to pack 
her valise; but in a few minutes she returned with 
a huge yellow sewing bag, and taking up her 
post in a rocking-chair by the window she settled 
herself comfortably, planted the bag in her lap, 
and began to sew. She spent almost the entire 
day in my room, sewing, knitting and reading by 
turns, while she rocked back and forth and oc¬ 
casionally hummed an unmelodious air—all in 
scornful disregard of my presence. I thought I 
should go mad if she stayed another day; and 
[ 250 ] 


when she quit my room at night I was so ex¬ 
hausted that I fell into a deep sleep, from which 
I was awakened early in the morning by a dis¬ 
turbance in the hall outside my door. Upper¬ 
most in the hubbub I could hear Miss Filburn’s 
high-pitched voice, with occasional interludes 
from Minnie and Chops, and from what I could 
gather it appeared that something had gone 
wrong in the nurse’s sleeping room. 

I called out, “Hallo there! What’s wrong?” 
and immediately the nurse came hurrying in, her 
red topknot askew, her face and manner denoting 
excessive agitation. 

“Mr. Fletcher, didn’t that paper say something 
about a death watch ticking in the walls ?” 

“Yes, there is a line running, 'The death-watch 
ticks within the panelled walls,’ or something like 
that.” 

“Yes, that’s it — I knew it — I distinctly heard 
it 'tick, tick,’ all night long in the wall near the 
head of my bed; it nearly drove me crazy! Some¬ 
body’s going to die in this house, — that’s the 
surest omen I know of.” 

She came up near my bed and pressing her ear 
against the wall she stood listening excitedly, 
while her eyes rolled about. 

“I thought of course it must be intended for 
you — as an added punishment for your— But it 

[ 251 ] 


isn’t; it must be me; mine is the only room you 
can hear it in. Why, at first I thought it was 
only a clock ticking; but I got up and looked all 
over the room, under the bed, in the closet and 
everywhere. There isn’t a sign of a clock any¬ 
where, and yet you can hear that sound as plain 
as day. It’s the devil’s wireless, that’s what it 
is, — warning someone here that they’ve only got 
a little while to live. I always knew that wire¬ 
less telegraphy was one of the devil’s own inven¬ 
tions. Now wouldn’t you think this would be the 
room, instead of mine ? I know someone’s going 
to die—I can feel it—I just know it; and it 
must be meant for me, because you can’t hear 
that warning anywhere but in my room. It 
sounds just like a slow message coming from a 
telegraph instrument. If I could only read what 
it says! Oh if I only understood those signals, 
then I’d know who it’s for!” She walked about 
the room jerking her arms and shaking her head. 
— “Yes, it is surely meant for me,” she concluded. 
“This is the gloomiest house I ever saw. If I 
should die here my spirit would get mixed up with 
all your— Oh I must get away from here im¬ 
mediately, or I shall either go mad or be dead in 
a short time!” 

Minnie and Chops both stood at the door, with 
grave anxiety written all over their faces. 

[ 252 ] 


“Minnie, hand me my check book and fountain 
pen from the upper drawer; and Chops, you hitch 
up the horse quickly. This nurse thinks she has 
been marked as the victim of some evil spirit in 
this house, and I refuse to be responsible for her 
life if she remains here another hour.” 

I wrote out a check for two weeks’ salary and 
handed it to Minnie, who gave it to the nurse. 
She stuffed it into the pocket of her dress without 
even looking at it, and hurried from the room 
without saying good-by. Minnie dropped into a 
chair and laughed till the tears rolled down her 
cheeks. 

“Minnie, what have you done to her?” 

“Nothing,” she whispered, “except that I had 
Chops place the little kitchen clock in the box 
spring of her bed.” 


[ 253 ] 


CHAPTER XV 


There was great rejoicing throughout the house 
on the day the nurse left; and even the spirits 
must have been moved to abandon their slumbers 
and join in the general thanksgiving. Higby came 
up after luncheon, bringing Henneker along, and 
immediately began unfolding an elaborate plan 
involving night-raiding and great turbulence 
which, if put in motion, would have set the house 
in an uproar unequalled by anything we had yet 
experienced. I let him run on for some time 
before breaking in with the disappointing news 
that the nurse had already gone. He was as 
heartbroken as a boy would be if he went to the 
circus and found that the clowns and all the 
animals had taken flight the night before; and 
when I told him that the “old redbird” had been 
driven from her nest, panic stricken, by a simple 
expedient known as the kitchen clock he dropped 
his jaw with an amusing look of incredulity, 
which changed to laughter and loud praise of 
Minnie and Chops when he heard the rest of the 
story. 


[ 254 ] 


Henneker had been aroused from his sleep the 
night before by a rough looking pedestrian who 
desired to know where John Galbraith lived. 
When told that he was dead, the stranger merely 
grinned, and turning about he went his way. 

“Thet Poet was a mysterious chap,” said Hig- 
by, “and my reckonin’ is that all the poetry he 
ever writ woudn’t fill as many pages as ’twould 
take to tell the story of his crimes. But by this 
time I allow he’s got his accounts squared up, 
and is either busy flappin’ his wings in Paradise 
er else tendin’ furnace fer the Old Boy; and 
’taint fer me or you t’ say which, ’thout knowin’ 
more about him.” 

The two men did not tarry long after learning 
that all their high-wrought plans had been fore¬ 
stalled by the prospective victim’s departure, on 
which Higby offered the mournful comment that 
it reminded him of a hanging that he went to see 
when he was about fourteen years old. A man 
in the neighborhood having been tried and con¬ 
demned to be hanged for murder, three or four 
of the boys planned to play hookey, and steal away 
to witness the hanging, which was to take place 
in the back yard of the county jail, about ten 
miles distant. For days in advance of the great 
event they talked and dreamed about the prospec¬ 
tive excitment; and having laid all their plans, on 

[ 255 ] 


the morning of the day appointed they took their 
dinner buckets and started, ostensibly for school, 
but after meeting at a certain rendezvous pre¬ 
viously agreed upon they all set off, pails in hand, 
for the scene of the hanging. After trudging 
along the hot, dusty roads under a broiling sun 
for more than three hours they arrived at their 
destination only to find that the fellow had hanged 
himself to a beam in the jail the night before. 

“I didn’t so much mind th’ feller hangin’ his- 
self,” said Higby in his droll way, “as I minded 
the cow-hidin’ thet my ole man give me when I 
got home thet night, all tired and hungry and 
dusty and disappointed.” 

After the visitors left, Minnie came in and sat 
down at the bedside. 

“Mr. Fletcher, you know this is the first oppor¬ 
tunity I’ve had of seeing you alone since the last 
nurse came, so of course you understand why I 
haven’t referred to the subject of our late conver¬ 
sation. . . . People are not usually concerned 

with the personal griefs of their employes, but 
they are entitled to know something of the char¬ 
acter of those who live under their roofs, and the 
more I think of it the more I feel guilty of hypoc¬ 
risy in not telling you of the cloud that hangs 
over my life. This distressing secret has eaten 
into my system like a canker. As you said the 

1256 ] 


other day, it threatens to corrode my whole being, 
and I’ve often thought if I didn't confide it to 
someone it would kill me. In fact only my re¬ 
ligious convictions have prevented me from des¬ 
troying myself before it destroyed me.” Here 
she paused, and seemed to be casting about for 
some manner of beginning, while I waited in 
anxious suspense. Presently she resumed.— 

“Dr. Bankhart's cordial greeting when you in¬ 
troduced us, convinced me that you both knew 
who my father and mother were.” 

“Yes, we surmised the truth.” 

“Then I need not trouble you with the details 
of my home life, except as they bear directly on 
my later misfortunes. 

“I have a brother named Gerald, two years 
younger than I, who fell in with pernicious com¬ 
pany while attending a private school up the Hud¬ 
son, and having been caught in some mischievous 
act he was expelled from school. Father placed 
him at another school, where the discipline was 
more rigid, and there he joined what the boys 
called the ‘Villains' Club'; and a few months later 
he, in company with two other boys, was appre¬ 
hended in the act of breaking into a house. They 
contended that it was only a harmless prank, in 
keeping with some of the secrets of their club, 
and through father's influence and the well known 

[ 257 ] 


standing of the other families, the boys were all 
let off, but they were expelled from school, and 
their club was broken up. After that father 
hired a private tutor for Gerald and kept him at 
home. Having got off so easily from the first 
two escapades, he was encouraged to take fur¬ 
ther risks, and after going up to bed at night he 
used to lock his door, let himself out the window 
with a rope, and spend half the night or more 
in bad company among the dives. In this way 
he met a fellow who went by the name of Jack 
Burgess, the villain who wounded you. Jack 
was a fairly respectable looking, well-dressed 
chap, and Gerald brought him home to luncheon 
one day and introduced him to father, who im¬ 
mediately took a marked dislike to him, and for¬ 
bade Gerald seeing him again; though several 
times after that when father was away Gerald 
brought him to the house, — once or twice at 
least for over night. He seemed to have a tre¬ 
mendous, hypnotic power over Gerald. I threat¬ 
ened several times to tell father of Jack's visits 
to the house if Gerald continued to associate with 
him, but fearing the consequences I held my 
tongue. One night when father was away attend¬ 
ing some convention they remained in the house 
over night, and in the morning Jack was missing, 
together with all our silver, jewelry, and nearly 
[ 258 ] 


every trinket of value in the house. Even my 
mother's jewels were taken from the small safe 
in the library. Gerald insisted that he knew 
nothing about the robbery, and the next night he 
had Jack there again. So when father came 
home I told him about Jack's visits, and in a fit 
of passion he ordered Gerald from the house, and 
forbade him ever to return. I immediately re¬ 
gretted my act, because it placed the blame for 
Gerald's dismissal entirely upon me; but what 
was already done was done, and all I could do 
toward repairing the damage was to locate his 
quarters, which I did through a detective, and to 
my horror I found that he was rooming with his 
friend Jack Burgess in a cheap quarter. I went 
in on them by surprise, and found most of our 
silver, though they said all the other valuables 
had been pawned or sold. After a long con¬ 
troversy I consented to let Gerald keep the silver 
if he would mend his ways and let me keep track 
of him, which he promised to do. After that I 
saw him frequently, without letting father know 
of it, and a few weeks later he was arrested under 
some assumed name. Jack made his escape, but 
Gerald was caught, tried and sentenced to a year 
in the workhouse. Again father's influence was 
brought to bear, this time indirectly, and after 
serving two months Gerald was released on pro- 

[ 259 ] 


bation. But in less than three months he and 
Jack were arrested again for a jewel burglary, 
and although father mortgaged our home and 
through his lawyer reimbursed the woman to the 
extent of many thousands of dollars for her 
jewels, both boys were sentenced to five years at 
Sing Sing. While enroute to Ossining, Gerald 
escaped through the car window and made his 
way back to his old living quarters, where I 
found him and carried food from home to him 
every day. I have always felt that the officers 
made it convenient for Gerald to escape, though 
of course father had no part in that. 

“Gerald never ceased to charge me with being 
the cause of father’s harshness toward him, and 
I was heartbroken to think that I was responsi¬ 
ble in part at least for his downfall. Added to 
all this I was dealt the most crushing blow of 
my life, in the loss of my father, who died 
suddenly of heart failure. When the estate was 
settled there was scarcely enough to pay the 
debts, and having no funds with which to pay 
lawyer’s fees, I simply stood by while everything 
was swept away under my very eyes. I was 
literally turned into the street. 

“I knew that I was both morally and legally 
bound to give Gerald up to the police, but under 
the circumstances I couldn’t force myself into giv- 
[ 260 ] 


ing up one of my own flesh and blood to go to 
prison for five years, especially since the debt had 
been fully paid. And oh, Heavenly Saints, what 
tragic days and weeks I spent after poor father’s 
death! 

“But I must keep to the cold dispassionate 
facts, or I shall never be able to finish. Finally 
I went to the Governor—whom father had 
known—and laid the case before him. Out of 
respect for father’s memory, and pity for me, he 
signed a pardon, on condition that I should per¬ 
sonally look after Gerald and do my utmost to 
keep him out of further mischief. It was a greater 
undertaking than I anticipated, but having made 
the bargain I stuck to it, though it cost me dearly. 
Later when Gerald became ill I went to an em¬ 
ployment office and got a position as parlor maid, 
under an assumed name, and in this way I earned 
money to buy his food and medicine. The family 
was very kind to me, and when they went to 
Europe they offered to place me in another home, 
but Gerald being well by that time, I went to stay 
with him. He got a position somewhere, and for 
a few weeks it looked as if he had reformed; but 
later he told me that he had again robbed the 
woman whom father had reimbursed. I threat¬ 
ened to expose him if he didn’t return the jewels, 
but he claimed to have disposed of them, and in 

[ 261 ] 


turn he threatened to shoot me if I gave him up 
to the authorities. What could I do but sub¬ 
mit — in my helpless condition! 

“After that we moved to better quarters, where 
he brought all sorts of ruffians and blackguards, 
some of whom made objectionable advances to 
me, and some insulted me by saying that I was 
Gerald’s mistress. By this time I had lost track 
of every friend and acquaintance, and my sense 
of shame checked me from appealing to them, 
while a consciousness of obligation prevented me 
from deserting Gerald, whom I still had some 
vague hope of redeeming.” 

She halted and regarded me with an eager, 
inquiring look. — “Does this long narration tire 
you ?” 

“No, No! Proceed, by all means. — Nothing 
could interest me more.” 

“Well, about that time Gerald became quite 
friendly with Jack’s older brother, who was what 
they called a 'reformed crook;’ and he was no 
other than the Poet, John Galbraith,—that of 
course being an assumed name. He was an 
educated fellow, and claimed to have descended 
from a family of literary geniuses, though his 
father died in State’s Prison. He seemed to 
have a restraining influence on Gerald, and being 
consumptive he planned to go to the mountains, 

[ 262 ] 


if Gerald would quit the underworld and go along 
with him.” 

Here I interrupted her to inquire what she 
knew about Galbraith’s career and his work. 

“He seemed to take a marked interest in 
Gerald.” she said, “and it was for that reason, I 
suppose, that I became more or less concerned 
with his history and his writings. Once when 
he came to see Gerald I had a long talk with him. 
He led a rather abstemious life, somewhat aloof 
from his lawless associates, and devoted much of 
his time to reading and writing. He was a de¬ 
vout admirer of Frangois Villon, and he said he 
had long been ambitious to become known as the 
poet of the underworld. He wrote a number of 
poems on vagabondage and adventure, some of 
which were printed in various newspapers and 
magazines over the nom de plume of Pete Under¬ 
wood. . . . Galbraith is strongly socialistic, 

and claims never to have inflicted a bodily injury 
or to have taken a penny from anyone who could 
ill-aflford to part with it. He never hoped to 
make poetry a source of personal income, and he 
never asked any compensation for the pieces that 
were printed, — his contention being that a poet’s 
work should be above mercenary considerations. 

“Although Galbraith prides himself on never 
having been convicted of a felony, one of his best 

[ 263 ] 


known pieces was supposedly written in prison, 
and is said to be second only to Oscar Wilde’s 
'Reading Gaol’ in its vivid portrayal of convict 
life. I remember one passage that especially 
impressed me—perhaps because of my sympa¬ 
thies for Gerald.— 

I long for the shadows of night to fall, 

When in dreams my pangs and fetters dissolve, 

And freedom steals softly into my soul 
With its rich store of memories of yore. Then 
In dreams of home I hear the beckoning call 
Of mother’s sweetly lambent voice at morn; 

And in moonlight strolls I feel the joyous thrills 
Of sweetheart’s kiss and fond entwining arms. 

Alas! too soon these transient visions fade — 

I cry in vain to lure them back again, 

But the darksome cell resumes its wonted gloom, 
And waking eyes behold my clanking chains. 

"Early in his married life Galbraith met with 
some overwhelming tragedy—whether it was 
brought on by having married one who was not 
in sympathy with his poetical bent, or whether 
it was his troubles that drove him into poetry, I 
don’t know; but he said that it changed his whole 
life from hope and cheerfulness to melancholy 
and despair. His verse, for the most part, is 
reminiscent, and somewhat reactionary in its 
tendency, but his word pictures are realistic and 
his sentiment bears the impress of sincerity. He 


[ 264 ] 


seems firmly convinced that someday his work 
will receive recognition. 

“When Galbraith proposed taking Gerald to 
the country with him I urged Gerald to accept 
the offer, and they came out here to live, while I 
went back to work for the family, which had 
lately returned from abroad. I hid myself in that 
way, in preference to seeking a position in an 
office or store, where I was sure to meet people 
I knew. 

“Once I came out here to see them, but the 
place was so lonely and forbidding that I re¬ 
mained only a few hours. While I was here 
Galbraith told me about the bond robbery, and 
although some of the securities were sent out here 
to him for safe keeping, he denied that either he 
or Gerald had any part in the theft. He claims 
that later, when the affair had quieted down, one 
of the fellows came out and took away all the 
negotiable bonds, and tried to dispose of them 
through a dealer in New York. I heard no more 
of Gerald for several weeks, until one day I re¬ 
ceived a letter from Galbraith saying that his 
brother Jack had been let out, and was staying 
with them. He said that Jack was trying to 
persuade Gerald to go back to the city, and asked 
me to intercede and prevent it. I wrote Gerald 


[ 265 ] 


immediately that I was coming out to live with 
him, and threatened to report the matter to the 
Governor if he took up with Burgess again, but 
I received no reply/' 

"Ah, I see — that explains the threat in your 
last letter." 

"Yes. And shortly after that I was taken ill 
and had to give up my position. With the little 
money I had saved I went to the boarding house 
where you found me." 

Here she looked up at me, a sad expression in 
her eyes. — "How little you realized what des¬ 
perate straits I was in! Again I wrote to Gerald, 
and again received no reply. My slender means 
soon became exhausted, and being threatened by 
the landlady, I wrote once more to Gerald. The 
last letter I directed to Galbraith, in the hope 
that he would notify me if Gerald had gone. 

"I never heard or saw anything more of Gerald 
until a few hours after you left the boarding 
house, when he appeared with a cab and asked 
me to go with him. I declined to go because of 
my engagement with you, of which I very indis¬ 
creetly told him. When he discovered that you 
had paid my board he flew into a rage and ac¬ 
cused me of conniving with you toward improper 
ends. He seemed still to have a remaining spark 
of family pride, and said that rather than submit 

[ 266 ] 


to this he would kill you. After a heated argu¬ 
ment I went along merely to appease him, intend¬ 
ing to write you explaining the circumstances. 

“Now you have the truthful history of my 
unhappy life, and it is for you to decide whether 
you will keep me in your employ or turn me 
away. . . . Oh, yes — there is one thing 

more that I wish to get off my mind. In a nega¬ 
tive sort of way I have deceived you in not telling 
you my brother came here the other night, after 
sending a messenger out from the village with a 
note saying he would be here at a late hour. I 
should have stopped him, but the messenger was 
gone before I could read the note, and I didn’t 
know where Gerald could be found; so I waited 
up till he came. He had found out who you were 
and was apprehensive lest Burgess had killed you, 
or you had killed him. I explained the whole 
affair, and he seemed deeply ashamed of what he 
had done. He plans to go to South America with 
Galbraith, who is now rapidly approaching his 
end. Like most victims of that fatal malady he 
has a restless desire to travel or move about in 
his last days. . . . Gerald was surprised 

when I told him about the report that Galbraith 
had committed suicide. He said they left here 
because he was very lonesome and Galbraith was 
becoming fidgety and wanted to travel. . . . 

[ 267 ] 


Now that Gerald is out from under the in¬ 
fluence of Burgess I’m more hopeful of his re¬ 
form. ... I hope I have not wearied you.” 

For some moments I lay quiet, endeavoring to 
conjure up some intelligent remark that would 
express my feelings. Two or three times I was 
on the point of stammering out my thoughts, but 
my tongue seemed thick, my senses muddled. It 
was a delicate and difficult situation to cope with. 
While this girl’s breeding, appearance and per¬ 
sonality all entitled her to a place in the foremost 
ranks of the social world, these natural endow¬ 
ments had all been thwarted by a combination of 
circumstances quite beyond her control. Like 
driftwood caught in the swirling current of a 
spring freshet she had been dislodged and tossed 
about on the currents of life with no one to turn 
to for assistance or advice; and though every fibre 
of her gentle, sensitive nature cried out against 
the conditions imposed upon her, she was helpless 
against the unpropitious tide of events that car¬ 
ried her along. 

All this time Minnie sat watching me anxiously, 
as if waiting for the verdict, and apparently on 
the point of giving way under the tremendous 
strain of the ordeal through which she had just 
passed. 

“Minnie, you are a brave, self-sacrificing girl,” 
[ 268 ] 


I managed finally to say. “But you have told me 
little about yourself that I had not already sur¬ 
mised. As for your going away, the thought is 
utterly unthinkable. . . . You remind me of 

a mishap that befell a beautiful rambler vine in 
my mother’s flower garden, and somehow the im¬ 
pression it made on me has always stood out in 
my memory with a haunting vividness. The 
frame to which it clung was blown down in a 
storm, carrying the vines along with it, and there 
lying prostrate on the ground was a radiant man¬ 
tle of foliage and flowers that completely sheltered 
the fallen frame to which they still adhered. 
There was something almost pathetic in the ap- 
' pearance of the little rose buds nestling on the 
leafy bosom of the mother vine that had been cast 
down. But when the vine was lifted up and pro¬ 
vided with new supports it sent forth new tendrils 
and radiated more beauty than ever before. 

“Thank God, your afflictions proceed from 
without rather than from within; and like a 
crushed rose, you exhale an atmosphere of frag¬ 
rance and beauty, even in the face of adversity. 
You need only to be lifted up and separated from 
the forces that dragged you down in order to 
regain your rightful position in the world. Your 
past troubles may be easily effaced; they may even 
prove a blessing in disguise, and something en- 

[ 269 ] 


courages me to hope that in future years you will 
revert to them as the doorway through which 
you entered upon the great happiness of your 
life.^ 


[ 270 ] 


CHAPTER XVI 


In another month I was up and about. Bur¬ 
gess had sent me word by Henneker that his case 
had been set for trial, and asked if he might see 
me; therefore as soon as I was able to travel I 
drove over to the county jail with the constable, 
who remained outside while the sheriff ushered 
me into a small narrow cell where we found the 
prisoner reading an old magazine. At first sight 
of me he sprang up and without waiting for the 
door to be opened he thrust his hand out through 
the iron bars. 

“God bless you, — I knew you’d come. They 
said you wouldn’t but I knew better.” 

As I took his proffered hand I observed 
that his fingers were straight and stiff. Chops 
having severed the muscles controlling the clos¬ 
ing of the hand, the back cords had drawn the 
fingers out straight, and in that position they had 
grown rigid. Chops had spoken knowingly in 
saying that he would never use knife or pistol 
again. When the sheriff left us to ourselves we 
sat down on the little iron bed and for some 

[ 271 ] 


moments he regarded me with a wistful eye. 
“Could you give me a cigarette or anything to 
smoke ?” he asked eagerly. 

“With my compliments,” said I, handing him 
a few packages of cigarettes that I had procured 
at a nearby store. With his nimble thumbs he 
clutched at them with the avidity of a hungry 
animal, and lighting one he settled back and took 
several deep inhalations, blowing the srftoke in 
clouds above his head with a look of serene con¬ 
tentment. — “I was dying for a smoke,” he said. 

Observing that he held the cigarette pressed 
between his thumb and the fleshy part of his hand, 
I was glad to see that Chops had considerately 
left the thumb cords untouched. At length he 
looked at me from a countenance beaming with 
gratitude. 

“God—what a brick you are!” he exclaimed. 
Presently he flicked the stub of his cigarette away 
and lighting another, he held it up and turned 
it about, while he gazed at it with an air of con¬ 
templation. 

“I’m mighty glad you came,” he said abstract¬ 
edly, viewing the smoke as it curled from his 
cigarette. “I wanted awfully to see you, but I 
don’t want you to think it was because I expect 
you to make it any easier for me. I’ve taken my 
medicine before without whining, and I’m going 

[ 272 ] 


to take it again; but I just wanted to tell you a 
few things before I go down the river, so you 
wouldn't think too hard of me.” 

“On the contrary, my dear man, I want you to 
know that I feel nothing but sympathy for you.” 

“Yes, I guess you must know I'm so crooked 
that I couldn't go straight if I tried. About the 
only thing straight about me is my fingers,” he 
said, holding them up and wiggling his thumbs, 
while he surveyed his crippled hands with a melan¬ 
choly smile. “But then I never did have more 
than half a chance from the start, because when 
I was sixteen my father was sent up, and it gave 
my brother and me a bad name. Besides, I guess 
I must have been born crooked, because as far 
back as I can remember I never could help steal¬ 
ing everything I could get away with. When 
mother died our home fell all to pieces; then after 
father was sent up we got in with a gang of 
crooks, and the money came so easy that we 
never even tried to be respectable. When a fel¬ 
low is naturally bad I guess he needs only a little 
encouragement to go wrong. We got all of that 
we needed, and more. Later I met Jerry Sher- 
win at a dance hall, and we got pretty well ac¬ 
quainted. He used to invite me to his home, and 
that's how I came to know his sister. The first 
time I saw that girl I went plumb crazy over 

[ 273 ] 


her, and I’ve been crazy over her ever since. But 
I never had the nerve to tell her so. She never 
gave me a chance anyway, because she was too 
good for me; and then she always thought it was 
me that led her brother astray. I’d go straight 
for that girl; yes, I’d go to hell for her if she 
asked me to.” 

Here the speaker checked himself and lowered 
his eyes. For a moment he looked the picture of 
despair. Presently he roused himself and looked 
up at me with a forced smile. — “I don’t suppose 
you’ll ever know how it feels to get foolish over 
a girl that’s as high as heaven above you, and I 
hope to God you never will. When Jerry told me 
what you’d done I thought it was my chance to 
make a hit with her, but I was all wrong — it 
didn’t work. I’m just naturally so bad that no 
decent girl would ever have anything to do with 
me, and the sooner I get into hell where I belong, 
the better it will be. I’ve always had just sense 
enough to know how cussed I was, without being 
man enough to pull away from the gang I ran 
with. Just like a dope fiend — he knows the stuff 
will get him, but he can’t leave it alone. Maybe 
all this don’t interest you, but you’re the only 
decent man I’ve ever had a chance to talk to like 
this, and I sort of feel that I owe it to you to 
explain.” 


[ 274 ] 


For a while he talked on in a monotone, his 
eyes half averted, when suddenly he turned and 
faced me. — 

“My God, how glad I am that I didn’t kill you! 
Wouldn’t it have made an awful mess!” 

“Yes, I feel that way about it too; and while I 
can’t quite imagine myself in your shoes, I think 
I get a fairly good idea of your viewpoint. You 
know I tried to get this out of you once before.” 

“I know you did, and I’ve been thinking about 
it ever since. No one ever treated me as white 
as you did. Maybe you don’t know it, but you 
couldn’t have hurt me half as much any other 
way. Seems funny, don’t it,” he said with a grim 
smile, “to make a fellow feel bad by being decent 
to him? . . . And, say, by the way, you 

know that detective that tried to arrest you? 
Well, that was all a bluff; he wasn’t any detective 
at all. He was a fellow in the gang that we 
called 'Spike,’ because he always spiked every¬ 
body he could; and I believe he was the one that 
doubled-crossed me and got me sent up the river. 
When I got out he tried to make up to me by 
giving me some money. I was flat broke, and I 
took it, but I soon found out what his game was 
— when he told me about the bond robbery that 
some of the gang had pulled off while I was serv¬ 
ing time. He said the stuff had all been sent in a 

[ 275 ] 


big double bottomed chest up to my brother, who 
was living in the house where you are, under the 
name of John Galbraith. He was about dead 
with the 'con/ so he made up his mind he’d go 
straight the rest of his days. Spike said my 
brother told him that most of the stuff had been 
taken away, but he didn’t believe it. When I 
got up there I found it was all gone, except some 
stocks that no one could use, and those you’ll find 
wrapped up and tucked in between the stones at 
the bottom of an old well down cellar. You can 
get them if you want to, and send them back; but 
don’t let it leak out that I told you. 

"Spike always was a sneaking coward anyway; 
he was a lazy, coldfooted drone, and never had 
the nerve to make a haul himself, but he always 
bullied the other fellows, except my brother, and 
made them divy up with him. If they refused 
they knew he’d either steal it from them or else 
set the bulls on them to get part of the reward. 
I always thought that’s what he did to me; but 
he was afraid of my brother, and he never could 
bluff him. That’s why the gang sent that stuff 
out to my brother — to keep Spike from stealing 
it. 

"The day I went up to your place Miss Sher- 
win’s brother Jerry came rushing into my room 
all out of breath and told me a wild tale about 

[ 276 ] 


how you had paid her board to get her to go and 
live with you, so I took the 6:30 train, — the next 
after the one he said you went on, — and when 
I got off at the village I was surprised to see Spike 
get off the rear car and sneak away in the dark. 
He was disguised, but I knew him the minute I 
saw him. I went out and got into your house 
about midnight, but just as I got to the top of 
the cellar steps I heard someone stirring, so I 
beat it; and as I was going down the road, who 
should I meet but Spike, coming up. He pulled 
off his disguise when he saw I knew him, and 
accused me of pinching the bonds. He said he 
found out that Jerry had sent me out for them, 
and that I hadn’t as much right to them as he had, 
because he’d been cheated out of his share. 

“I wanted to get you, but after thinking it all 
over I hated to scare Miss Sherwin, and I didn’t 
want her to see me in the house; so I let on to 
Spike as if I’d been after the bonds, but that you 
were up, so we’d have to try again. I knew you 
were a stranger in the place, and after talking it 
all over — without letting Spike know I thought 
Miss Sherwin was in the house—we cooked up 
a scheme to get out a fake warrant for you to get 
you outside in the night time. I fixed it so that 
Spike would take the constable up there after 
dark, and I told him that when you got out I’d go 

[ 277 ] 


in and get the goods. But instead of that I laid 
for you by the roadside down at the edge of the 
woods. Soon after sundown it clouded up, and 
by the time they got in the house it began to rain, 
and it was so dark I couldn’t have told one of you 
from another, so I gave it up and went back to the 
village and slept the rest of the night at the sta¬ 
tion. Next morning I saw Spike and when he 
told me he had fixed it up to have the constable 
take you away that afternoon I cussed him out, 
because he’d spoiled the whole thing by having you 
taken away in daylight. When I said I wouldn’t 
have anything more to do with the deal he got 
huffed and said he’d go back to town on the after¬ 
noon train. That evening I went out, expecting 
to go in after you’d gone, and get Miss Sherwin 
and take her back to her brother; but not meeting 
you with the constable I thought Spike had lied 
to me, or else our trick had been discovered, so 
after dark I went up to the house and hid out in 
the grove. About midnight when I thought 
everybody would be asleep I was about to go in 
when I saw Spike sneak up and go in through the 
cellar door. I thought he figured it out that 
you had gone, and he intended to lay for me and 
plug me when I came out with the bonds. Pret¬ 
ty soon I heard an awful racket inside and I made 
up my mind that Spike had got you. But when 

[ 278 ] 


the lights came on I saw you fellows had got him, 
so after waiting a while I cleared out.” 

“What you say about your friend Spike re¬ 
minds me that after my man caught him he 
offered to share the reward with us if we’d help 
him find the papers.” 

“Yes, that’s the kind of a cad he was; he’d 
promise anything to save his face.” 

“Strange, wasn’t it, that he should have been 
shot on the way to the village that night?” 

Burgess looked up and grinned, without show¬ 
ing any surprise. 

“The world is no worse off,” he said laconically. 
“But as to that, I guess no one will bother to 
erect any monument to me, either, when I’m put 
away.” 

After half an hour’s visit I left him feeling more 
cheerful. On the way home we stopped at Hig- 
by’s and took him up to The Evergreens, arriving 
there about sunset. “I’ve got a big surprise for 
you fellows,” I announced. 

“Haint got a new heifer calf, hev ye ?” queried 
Higby. 

“No — something better than that. I think I 
can put you in line for collecting at least a part 
of that ten thousand dollar reward. At any rate 
I’ve found out where a portion of the securities 
were hidden. If they are still there we’ll tele- 

[ 279 ] 


phone in to the Company and whatever reward 
they are willing to give will be divided between 
you.” 

"Nothing o’ the sort,” remonstrated Higby. 
"If th's any reward, ye're in on it with us.” 

"All right, we won't argue that; if we find them 
the reward will be equally divided between you 
two.” 

Arriving at the house we all hurried in and got 
Chops to go down to the well with us, where we 
stood waiting while he went down and felt about 
between the stones. Presently he called up that he 
had found the bundle, and when he came up with 
it Higby shouted — "By gonnies! We've got 'em 
— th' reward is ours!” 

The package did indeed contain many certifi¬ 
cates of stock in various well known corporations, 
aggregating several thousand shares, and the re¬ 
ward offered seemed little enough. It being then 
too late to reach the owners by telephone we waited 
till next morning, when Higby accompanied me to 
the village, eager to learn if they would pay the 
full reward of ten thousand, or if perchance it 
might be reduced to only a portion of that sum, as 
I had predicted, considering that the bonds were 
missing. On our way to the village Higby was 
in high spirits; he said that he and his wife had 
spent most of the night discussing the matter and 

[ 280 ] 


wrangling over how the money should be dis¬ 
posed of — she contending that at least two thou¬ 
sand should be put into the savings bank, and he 
arguing that the whole sum should be laid out 
immediately on farm machinery and improve¬ 
ments. He was astonished to discover how many 
new implements and repairs were really indis¬ 
pensable, and if he were to get half of the full 
sum offered it would scarcely cover the figures he 
had already compiled. He therefore urged me 
to hold out for the entire amount originally offer¬ 
ed, — especially considering the large amount in¬ 
volved and the trouble we had all been put to, — 
for he didn't see how he could possibly get along if 
his share were reduced to a meagre twenty-five 
hundred or so. He generously insisted, however, 
that I take at least one-third, but I declined, on the 
ground that being well provided for I had no 
need of it. 

After reaching the village I was not long in 
getting one of the Company's officers on the tele¬ 
phone, and when asked if the original offer still 
held good he said it had been withdrawn entirely, 
because most of the bonds had been recovered 
through a brokerage office and that the requisite 
indemnity bonds having been put up, duplicate 
certificates had already been issued by the various 
companies for all the stolen stock. 

[ 281 ] 


When I hung up the receiver and repeated this 
message to Higby he suddenly caught his breath 
and stared at me for some seconds. I have heard 
of the Statue of Surprise, but I do not recall any 
such sculptural representation of mingled Sur¬ 
prise and Disappointment. Higby’s strained 
features formed the finest imaginable picture of 
this dual expression illustriously blended in one 
countenance. But he could not long hold the 
extraordinary pose, and the picture vanished in 
a vehement explosion — 

“Wall, if that don’t beat hell!” 


[ 282 ] 


CHAPTER XVII 

A representative of the owners of the stolen 
securities called next day, and I turned them over 
to him. Although he was a man of few words, 
in presenting his credentials he confessed to the 
proud distinction of having been a trusted em¬ 
ploye of the company for upwards of twenty 
years — in the same responsible position. When 
I told him of Higby’s zealous efforts, and of his 
blighted hopes, he expressed profound regret, at 
the same time lamenting his lack of discretionary 
powers in such matters. But he could at least as¬ 
sure us all of the Company’s gratitude — as a 
token of which, and furthermore as an evidence 
of his own magnanimity, he offered not only to 
reimburse me for the expense of telephoning, but 
also to recompense Higby for the actual time 
spent in searching for the stolen papers. I said 
that not being authorized by Mr. Higby to accept 
his proposal I must decline it, as I supposed he 
also would do, since he was not a man of merce¬ 
nary tendencies. And as for the cost of the 

[ 283 ] 


telephone message, he might hand the sum to 
the colored porter in the chair car on his way 
down to the city. 

When I related the interview to Higby he mere¬ 
ly remarked — “I’ve alius hear’n tell thet a cor¬ 
poration haint got no soul. I reckon we ort to 
count ourselves lucky thet th’ feller didn’t ask 
us fer his carfare out here and back.” 

It was now late in June — of all months in the 
year the most blithesome for lovers of country 
life. It was a glorious afternoon, and I sat in a 
large easy chair in front of the house reading, 
while the robbins flitted about in the trees, and 
scolded at me because I happened to be in close 
proximity with a nest of young birds in a scrag- 
gly old vine that clung to the latticed side of the 
little front porch. 

Phil Barton and his wife had arrived on the 
early morning train to spend the week-end, 
though their confidence in the place had not been 
sufficiently established to warrant them in bring¬ 
ing out their little brood. Mrs. Barton was a 
slender, sweet-faced little creature, with bright 
compelling eyes that spoke far above the tones 
of her soft contralto voice when she turned them 
on Phil to cool his ardorous eulogium on some 
enchantress who had fascinated him in the days 
of his youth. Phil was a loyal, affectionate hus- 
[ 284 ] 


band, but having been a great favorite with the 
ladies he would occasionally tease his wife with 
exaggerated recitals of his former conquests, be¬ 
fore he himself was finally conquered and har¬ 
nessed with domestic ties. 

Laying aside my book I saw Mrs. Barton com¬ 
ing across the field, laden with wild flowers she 
had gathered on the sunny hillside. As she ap¬ 
proached she laid a great bunch of blossoms in 
my lap, and stood stroking back the loose curls 
from her sunburned cheeks. 

“There!” she said, “I’ve brought you some of 
the fruits of your great wild garden. It seems 
too bad to pick them, but I just couldn't resist it— 
they looked so lonely, and it seems a shame to 
waste all their fragrance and beauty out there, 
with no one to enjoy them. They remind me of 
Gray's ‘Elegy,' where he speaks of flowers that are 
‘born to blush unseen and waste their sweetness 
on the desert air.' I love that poem.” 

She sat down on the front step and fanned 
herself with her sailor sat. — “Where's Phil?” 
she asked. 

“I don't know; the last I saw of him he was 
teasing the goat out in the barnyard.” 

“Well, I suppose it might as well be the goat 
as me; so after all I'm glad he brought it along 
to amuse himself with, though it's a shame to 

[ 285 ] 


impose such a nuisance on you. He said the man 
told him it was a family pet, but he’ll probably 
get it so ugly that no one can go near it. The 
thing nearly demolished the baggage car coming 
out, but Phil would bring it; he said he had to 
bring you some sort of present, and that no gen¬ 
tleman’s country estate is complete without at 
least one goat. You know his idea of a farm is 
limited to goats and geese. He thinks they 
make peas and tomatoes in the canning factories. 

. . . I wish he’d buy a place out here near 

you — I love the country. You know Phil gave 
me a terrible impression of this place. I was al¬ 
most afraid to come out. But I can’t see any¬ 
thing about it to make one so pessimistic. I 
think it’s charming, — especially out of doors. 
And I’m simply dippy over Miss Sherwin. One 
of my girl chums was a schoolmate of hers. 
. . . Of course you know Phil is no farmer — 

his vision doesn’t extend beyond Forty-fifth and 
Broadway; and I suppose if he should ever get 
a farm, instead of buying cattle and horses, the 
first thing he’d stock it with would be a goat and 
a troupe of theatrical artists.” 

“Yes, I remember Phil would nearly always fore¬ 
go a night lecture at college to attend a musical 
comedy. He used to boast that he was one of the 
great ninety percent, who go to the theatre to be 

[ 286 ] 


amused. Said he got all the instruction he 
wanted in the class room, without paying two 
dollars for a seat.” 

She chatted breezily on, about the extensive 
view, the wonderful mountain air, and the pic¬ 
turesque setting of the romantic old house nest¬ 
ling amid the evergreens overlooking the great 
inland waterway, and my thoughts were about 
equally divided between the trend of her con¬ 
versation and in wondering if any untoward event 
would transpire to lessen her good opinion of the 
place. It would be just like Phil to play some 
prank in order to justify the melancholy impres¬ 
sion he had conveyed to his wife, and I was 
determined if possible to forestall any such con¬ 
trivance. 

Presently Mrs. Barton got up, and taking in a 
deep breath she exclaimed, — “O-h-h! Oh! Just 
look at the gorgeous view across that green val¬ 
ley, with that beautiful river meandering through 
its midst! — Why, you can see for miles and miles 
over to the next range! They pay vast sums 
for tiny landscape paintings, and here you are in 
the background looking out upon a picture such 
as no artist could paint! Pm just crazy over 
your place!” she said ecstatically, as she turned 
to go inside. 

There is perhaps nothing that will give you a 
[ 287 ] 


more exalted idea of a person’s opinion than for 
that person to bestow unstinted praise on some 
pet object, dear to your heart, whether it be a 
child, a book, a picture, or a farm; and boundless 
fortunes are spent for uniques, whose chief utility 
consists in delighting their owners with other 
people’s envy. Heretofore everyone had spoken 
so disparagingly of my domicile that during my 
late illness I had grown to detest it as a whole; 
but now the congenial company, the trees 
wreathed in their green summer garb, the flower¬ 
ing shrubbery, the rejuvenated flower beds, the 
fluttering birds, the crowing roosters — we now 
had three — and cackling hens, — not forgetting 
the lowing cows, the blatant calves and Phil’s 
goat, — all combined to produce a tout ensemble 
of vibrancy and cheerfulness. 

But this marked transition from the lifeless, 
colorless, low-spirited aspect of two months be¬ 
fore was unfortunately restricted to the grounds 
about the house; the inside still retained its mor¬ 
bid air of dejectedness which seemed rather to be 
intensified than mitigated by the contrasting im¬ 
provement outside. Happily the weather now 
permitted us to spend most of the daylight hours 
out of doors; but at night there was no escape 
from the inner gloom, except during hours of 
repose. One would naturally think that as time 

[ 288 ] 


went on the feeling of trepidation would subside, 
but somehow it seemed rather to increase, and 
my sensations can best be described by saying 
that I grew to feel as if I were sleeping in an old 
pest-house, isolated on a far hill in a setting of 
great natural beauty. 

Although since the nurse and clock episode the 
house had been comparatively quiet, the words of 
the celebrated Roman General, — 

Wool once dyed with the seaweed’s stain 

Will ne’er its former lustre regain, 

were no less applicable to the demoralized con¬ 
dition of the Roman soldiery in Carthage than 
they were to this ancient habitation which had 
been smoked and saturated with crime, disease 
and disaster for the past hundred years; and as 
the residents adjacent to a dormant volcano are 
in constant danger from an eruption, so as oc¬ 
cupants of this old mansion we were constantly 
wondering when the next catastrophe would 
occur. The new cook and the farm manager, 
without knowing anything about its sinister his¬ 
tory, had been quick to sense an atmospheric un- 
savoriness in their unsuspecting nostrils, and I 
was under a perpetual cloud of apprehension lest 
their imaginations become inflamed. As a pre¬ 
cautionary measure I had Chops remove the lad¬ 
der from the well in the cellar and throw in a few 

[ 289 ] 


wheel-barrow loads of earth, and every exposed 
condemnatory evidence was either removed or 
covered up. 

Owing to some delay in getting poles the elec¬ 
tric light wires had not been strung, and at night 
we were still obliged to make our way about the 
creaky halls and rooms by lamp and candle light. 
A liberal application of paint and new wall paper 
in several of the rooms, while tending to brighten 
their appearance, hid only from the eye — not 
the mind — the grisly obscurities that lay behind 
this outer veneering. It was like painting a leper, 
or dressing a black-hearted villain up in the garb 
of a gentleman. The noxious vapors appeared 
to ooze out through the paint and paper like per¬ 
spiration through the pores of the skin. In fact, 
I discovered that even in that dry altitude several 
of the thick partition walls were constantly moist, 
and in humid or rainy weather some of them 
exuded a greenish substance that stood out in 
small splotches on the paper like canker sores. 
Like a spoiled egg, it was hopelessly bad through 
and through; it was an unfit place of human 
abode. 

There was no incentive either to refurnish or 
redecorate a house so vilely inoculated with pes¬ 
tilential germs — where the whole interior reeked 
with the odors and memories of sickness and 

[ 290 ] 


death, murder and misfortune; where everything, 
both material and spiritual, conspired to keep one 
in a constant mind of unpleasant retrospection 
and fearful anticipation. I was more than ever 
impressed with the wisdom of the agent's sug¬ 
gestion that someone ought to write the history 
of the house, since there was always the danger 
that it might be destroyed or crumble to ruins 
with no surviving record of its traditions. 

After dinner we all sat outside watching the 
sunset, while Mrs. Barton continued to dilate on 
the beauties of the country. 

"It's all right for a little while in summer," 
admitted Phil, “but when the bleak November 
winds begin to whirl the dead leaves in eddies 
about the yard, give me the bright lights of upper 
Broadway. . . . Now, honestly, Miss Sher- 

win, don’t you agree with me?" 

“But you’re not supposed to stay out all win¬ 
ter," argued Mrs. Barton. “I should be satisfied 
with four or five months; and think what a won¬ 
derful place it would be for the kiddies to romp, — 
instead of being cooped up in a stuffy beach hotel 
all summer." 

“I’ve always loved the Hudson," said Minnie, 
indirectly answering Phil’s appeal. “It is the 
scene of my happy schooldays. I remember we 
girls used to carry nicknacks to the old ferryman, 

[ 291 ] 


who never would accept a cent for taking us 
across to the opposite village, where we used to 
get soda-water, and spend most of our monthly 
allowance. One of the girls is now happily mar¬ 
ried to a man who has a country place on the Hud¬ 
son.” 

I caught the well-concealed note of sadness in 
her tone, which reminded me of the voice of a 
captured bird trilling the memories of by-gone 
days from behind its prison bars, while its erst¬ 
while companions, having found their mates had 
flown away to build their nests. But my sympa¬ 
thies were less marked than they would have been 
a month earlier, for somewhere deep within the 
recesses of my soul a voice seemed to whisper that 
the barriers would soon dissolve, and her freedom 
and happiness would again be restored. 

Phil’s solicitude for the comforts of his family 
induced him finally to admit the truth of his wife’s 
assertion, but with a distrustful survey of the old 
house he remarked that he would prefer a more 
modern structure. 

We sang old folk-songs, told stories and 
chatted by turns until well towards midnight 
when we retired to our respective rooms. About 
two o’clock in the morning I was awakened by a 
disagreeable dream that the Poet had gone crazy 
and returned to his old abode, threatening to 

[ 292 ] 


destroy everybody in the place; and for an hour 
or so I lay awake wondering what it was in the 
air or surroundings that had haunted me with 
unpleasant dreams of late. Whether it was the 
dream or what, I could not say, but I felt curiously 
disturbed — as if some disaster were hanging 
over me. For a long while I counted, up into 
the thousands, in a vain effort to throw off the 
feeling and propitiate the god of slumber; then 
I fancied a great sheepfold filled with thousands 
of sheep, which I undertook to count, one by one, 
as they jumped over the lower bar of a narrow 
gateway in rapid succession. At length as I was 
dozing in a semi-conscious state a startling noise 
broke upon my ears, as if someone were knock¬ 
ing out in the upstairs hall. I sat up in bed and 
listened. It seemed to move from one door to 
another, then to cease for a few moments, then 
to repeat its knock, knock, knock! I had heard 
that spirits make their presence known by knock¬ 
ing; also that people sometimes hear rapping, 
which exists only in their dreams or their imagi¬ 
nations; but I was now wide awake; this was 
no dream, and no imagination. It was as clear and 
unmistakable as if someone were knocking on my 
chamber door; though it was farther away. Re¬ 
membering my former experience, I suspected it 
was another assassin who was knocking on all 

[ 293 ] 


the doors, in an effort to locate mine. I listened 
for Chops, but he did not stir — which increased 
my alarm, for he was always awake at the slight¬ 
est sound. 

I got up, lit the little brass lamp at my bedside, 
and catching up my revolver I went to the door 
and peered cautiously out into the dark hallway. 
Phil and his wife were lodged in the room across 
from mine, and their door was closed. The 
knocking appeared to be at the farther side of the 
house. I got into my dressing gown and as I 
stepped out into the passageway the floor creaked, 
and the noise ceased again. Revolver in hand, 
I went on tiptoe along the hall, holding the light 
in advance, with eyes and ears alert. It is gen¬ 
erally acknowledged that in case of fire or other 
cause of great mental agitation people will com¬ 
mit the most extraordinary and nonsensical fol¬ 
lies, and the rankest foolhardiness is sometimes 
mistaken for bravery. In this case certainly 
nothing could have been more idiotic than to 
make a shining target of myself by taking up a 
tiny lamp and parading through the dark hall 
where an assassin was supposed to be lying in 
wait. 

After seeing that all the sleeping room doors 
were closed I went down to the foot of the stairs, 
where I stood staring about and listening. To 

[ 294 ] 


my astonishment I discovered that the front 
door was open; and as I gazed at it, wondering, 
the knocking commenced again, now almost di¬ 
rectly over my head. Someone had doubtless en¬ 
tered the house, bent on murdering us all, and had 
left the door open to expedite a hasty exit. I felt 
sure he was now up stairs knocking at some bed¬ 
room door. — I was positive of it. It is strange 
how darkness will stimulate one's powers of 
imagination: I could see him, plain as day, 
standing there, now knocking, now listening for 
someone to stir inside. Those who have never 
undergone a like experience know not the fearful 
images that rise before one's mental vision on 
such an occasion; but if anyone wishes to know 
precisely what my feelings were at that moment, 
let him try the experiment, about three o'clock 
some morning, of groping about a dark, creaky- 
floored old house in quest of a crazy man or a 
would-be murderer. My first impulse was to 
shout and wake up the household, but this would 
cause the others more alarm than the strange 
noise had caused me; so I made my way back up 
the stairs, my knees knocking together at every 
step. When I reached the top the knocking 
stopped, — that is, the knocking from the un¬ 
known source, — and I scudded along the hall 
past my own door toward Chops' room to awaken 

[ 295 ] 


him, imagining the while that the eyes of the 
murderous invader were watching me from some 
dark corner. As I was about to put my hand on 
the door knob my blood congealed with terror at 
the sight of two blazing eyes staring at me from 
a dark corner at the end of the hall, not ten feet 
from where I stood. A cold shiver crept up my 
spine and gripped the roots of my hair. I had 
sufficient presence of mind to raise my arm and 
fire, but the bullet must have gone wide of its 
mark. At this moment a door opened behind 
me, to which, however, I paid no heed, for my 
optics were frozen on the pair of ghastly eyes 
which shone like balls of fire in the light of my 
lamp. Suddenly there was a scratching, scrab¬ 
bling noise and in the dim light I saw the hideous 
thing making straight for me; whereat I lunged 
against Chops’ door, and as it scampered past I 
recognized Phil’s tremendous black goat—it 
having been his hoof beats on the floor that first 
alarmed me. Gulping my heart back into its 
place, I turned about as the animal passed, and 
saw Phil standing in the hallway in front of his 
door, which he had opened just in the nick of 
time to witness the scene; also in the nick of time 
to receive the impact of the goat which, as near 
as I could see, ran squarely between his legs, 
toppling him over in an ungraceful heap on the 

[ 296 ] 


floor. Awakened by the commotion, Chops open¬ 
ed his door and I sprang inside, leaving Phil and 
the goat to have it out in the dark. The unequal 
combat favored the goat, since he could see in 
the dark, and Phil couldn’t. 

On coming out into the hallway Phil had heed¬ 
lessly closed his bedroom door, and in the dark¬ 
ness he was unable to find any refuge. His ac¬ 
tions I do not describe, because I did not see them, 
other than his first upset; and his language— 
which was distinctly audible — I do not record, 
because while it seemed appropriate enough for 
the occasion, it was too highly wrought for sen¬ 
sitive ears to hear or eyes to read. But his vocif¬ 
erous appeals soon convinced me that he was 
ready to call quits with the animal he had tor¬ 
mented and dodged so successfully in the day¬ 
light hours, so I sent Chops to the rescue, while I 
held the light. Mrs. Barton opened her door, and 
catching a glimpse of the noisy affray she banged 
it shut in the midst of a shriek that rang through¬ 
out the house. About this time the farmer and 
the second man came hurrying to the scene, and 
between the five of us we managed to capture the 
goat and drag him out. 

There being no more thought of sleep that 
night, the Bartons and Minnie congregated in 
my room and we prattled about the farcical event, 

[ 297 ] 


while Chops went down to make some strong coffee 
with which to steady our nerves. When I accused 
Phil of instigating the farce he stoutly swore 
that it was none of his doings, and that when 
last he saw “that damned beast” he was locked 
in the barnyard. The farmer had already ex¬ 
plained that the goat got out with the cows when 
he turned them out to pasture the evening before, 
and in view of the fact that he could easily have 
wandered in through the open door, Phil's vehe¬ 
ment protestations of innocence impressed us all, 
except his wife, who declared that he had the 
whole scheme in the back of his brain when he 
brought the pesky animal out from the city, and 
that he got exactly what he deserved. 

Such are the tender expressions of sympathetic 
emotions that we sometimes evoke from those who 
love us best. 


1298 ] 


CHAPTER XVII 


Having had less than three hours’ sleep on the 
night following their arrival Saturday morning, 
the Bartons decided to take the Sunday afternoon 
train to the city, professedly because of their 
anxiety to see how the children were getting on, 
but more likely to avail themselves of a quiet 
night’s rest. The goat episode was the more re¬ 
grettable because Mrs. Barton’s nerves were so 
badly shaken that during the day she started at 
every sound, refused to go upstairs to her room 
unless accompanied by Minnie or Phil, and ate 
scarcely a morsel of food. And, to confess the 
truth, my own nerves, owing to my weakened 
physical condition, were but little steadier than 
hers. Phil, who was in disgrace with his wife, 
spent most of Sunday cudgeling his brain to think 
of something he could buy as a peace offering. 
He declared there was nothing he could think of, 
costing short of a thousand dollars, that would 
suffice to reinstate him in her good graces. 

After the glowing impression that Mrs. Bar- 

[ 299 ] 


ton had formed of the place I was keenly disap¬ 
pointed that she had been so suddenly and 
completely disillusioned, and probably could never 
be induced to visit there again. This, my first 
attempt at entertaining friends from the city, had 
proved so disastrous that I made up my mind it 
would be my last. There was no use trying to 
humanize a place that was fraught with so many 
inhuman aspects. Of course the goat affair 
could have befallen any other house as well as 
this one, but if it hadn’t been the goat, I felt cer¬ 
tain that something else, perhaps worse, would 
have intervened on the side of disharmony. 

Sunday afternoon when Chops took the Bar¬ 
tons to the station I instructed him to return by 
Higby’s house and leave a note I had written 
asking him to come up to The Evergreens. Dur¬ 
ing the interval of his absence Minnie and I 
walked about the grounds, discussed the late 
disaster, and paid a visit to the goat, which we 
found tied securely to a post in the barn with a 
heavy log chain about his neck. The animal was 
out of favor with everyone on the place, includ¬ 
ing the farmer who had had a set-to with him in 
the barn that morning. 

“I can sympathize with that poor tormented 
beast,” said Minnie, “because he’s among strang¬ 
ers, without a friend in the world. If he hadn’t 

[ 300 ] 


been tormented so much I’ve no doubt he would be 
less troublesome/' 

We strolled out toward the field in front of the 
house. 

“I wonder why it is," she said reflectively, “that 
dumb animals appear to be more responsive to 
kindness than highly civilized human beings." 

Wondering if the thought was suggested by 
some observation in her own experience, I medi¬ 
tated for some moments before replying. 

“Some would challenge the soundness of your 
premise, except as applied to specific cases; but 
granting it to be correct, I presume that being 
nourished nearer to Nature's breast, so to speak, 
the lower animals partake more of her qualities; 
then, too, their virgin instincts are uncorrupted 
by artifice and education. It has always been 
generally supposed that deceit, craftiness, intrigue 
and ungratefulness have attained their highest 
perfection in European court circles, and per 
contra, that honesty, sincerity, loyalty and grati¬ 
tude are common attributes of the lower and less 
ambitious classes. This hypothesis, if true, might 
be applied to the lower animal kingdom. If you 
abuse Nature's laws, she is apt to chasten you; if 
you indulge them she is responsive; and her clos¬ 
est adherents may be expected to have like tend¬ 
encies. And yet, while responsiveness may be in 

[ 301 ] 


the category of old Mother Nature’s teachings, 
she certainly fails to endow her brood with in¬ 
stincts of generosity. Nothing breeds selfishness 
like ignorance, and the responsiveness of animals 
to kind treatment is inspired mostly by individual 
motives, just as some human beings fawn over 
others in the hope of gaining some favor or con¬ 
cession. You have noticed that animal trainers 
are constantly giving morsels of food to the ani¬ 
mals while performing. 

“I should say that your question is so many- 
sided that it opens up a very broad field for study 
and discussion — so broad indeed that it is diffi¬ 
cult to drive any point to a definite conclusion. 
And the longer a fellow talks, the farther he leads 
himself astray, as you doubtless observe.” 

She laughed, and stooping she picked a violet 
which she pinned to the lapel of my coat. 
“There,” she said, “is one of Nature’s sweetest 
children. I remember father used to quote the 
Biblical passage about Solomon and 'the lilies of 
the field;’ and I’ve often heard him say that the 
reason why religion has survived the storms and 
changes of all ages is that it is 'fundamentally and 
unalterably’ based upon God and Nature. He 
used to say that the whole tendency of civilization 
is to educate people away from their primitive 
instincts; that too many intellectualists imagine 

[ 302 ] 


they have outgrown religion, and that kultur is 
being overdone. I wonder, really, if that isn't 
so, and if history won't repeat itself, as in the case 
of Carthage and the Roman Empire — and in the 
late instance of the powerful German Empire, 
where the overdeveloped kultur of a great people 
rushed them to their downfall." 

One thing I particularly liked about Minnie, 
she seemed to appreciate my philosophy, and to 
relish all my stories and attempts at witticism — 
at least she pretended to — and there is perhaps 
nothing that will more quickly recommend a wom¬ 
an's cleverness to a man's esteem than a readiness 
to applaud his wit when he endeavors to say 
something funny. But I have not deemed it wise 
to hazard anyone's good opinion of Minnie's 
judgment by repeating the various conceits at 
which she laughed, because sayings which may 
appear apt or clever at given points in conversa¬ 
tion will oftentimes lose their edge and appear 
trite or banal when expressed in cold type. 

We were wandering aimlessly down the gras¬ 
sy hillside, our conversation drifting from one 
topic to another. At length we came to the edge 
of the woods, where we climbed up on a great 
boulder and sat for an hour or so chatting in sub¬ 
dued tones over matters past, present and future. 
The trend and tenor of our discourse would per- 

[ 303 ] 


haps interest no one in the same degree that they 
did us, but now as I look back upon the quiet, 
restful scene, where it seemed as if we were the 
only two beings in the whole world, the endearing 
memories of that sacred and eventful hour stir 
within me certain emotions known only to those 
who have held the cup of happiness to their lips 
and drank until their senses reeled and their very 
souls seemed filled with the ecstacy of its contents. 

When Chops returned, accompanied by Higby 
in his light buggy, Minnie got in with Higby and 
nestled herself in the narrow seat beside him. 
He chuckled triumphantly and winked at me, 
with an indicative nod toward the other rig. 

“Wall, now that’s th’ purtiest thing you ever 
done, Miss Minnie, and if I’d hev known that I 
was goin’t’ take sech a purty gal for a ride, I’d 
of shined this old rig up a bit.” 

When we reached the gate Minnie sprang out 
and skipped joyously up the walk, smiling happily 
over her shoulder as she disappeared into the 
house. Higby and I sat down on an old rustic 
bench in the arbor. 

“I thought yer company was goin’t’ stay over 
till Monday mornin’,” he remarked; “but I see 
they’ve done gone.” 

“Yes, and that’s one reason why I sent for 
you, Higby. A goat that my friend brought out 

[ 304 ] 


as a present for me, got into the house about 
three o’clock this morning, and caused such a 
rumpus that Mrs. Barton’s nerves were com¬ 
pletely shattered.” 

“A goat! And what d’ye want with a goat?” 

“I don't want him; he’s yours if you’ll take him 
off.” 

“Wall, I’ve tole ye all along thet they’d sure 
get ye; and if it wasn’t th’ goat it would a been 
somethin’ else. They’ve got th’ cards all stacked 
agin ye, — er anyone else thet tries to live here.” 

“Higby, I guess you’ve been right all along; 
at any rate I’m going to heed your advice. I’m 
all through—I’m going to clear out of this 
place.” 

At this abrupt announcement his ruddy face 
took on a pained expression, and for some mo¬ 
ments he gazed at me, seemingly lost for words.— 

“Wall, ye’ve clean took all the wind out’n my 
sails. I’m almighty sorry t’ lose ye, but o’ course 
I’ve know’d all the time it was only a question of 
when. I wish ye’d build another house, er come 
and stop with me, er somethin’, so’s I could see ye 
now and then.” 

“Now, Higby, what I propose to do is this: — 
I’m going to reconstruct one of the outbuildings 
as a temporary home for my farmer and his wife 
and the hired man, all of whom I shall keep here 

[ 30s ] 


to put the farm in order. Then I’m going to 
turn this house —not the land, but the house with 
its entire contents, over to you to dispose of as 
you please. Take out what stuff you want, then 
tear it down, burn it down, or do with it what you 
will, just so there isn't a vestige of it remaining 
when I return next spring. I want even the 
foundation stones dug out and hauled away, and 
I'll pay whatever you ask for the work. But re¬ 
member, you are to burn up or cart off every 
scrap, leaving only the hole where the cellar now 
is. Next spring I intend to bring out an archi¬ 
tect and make plans for a new house. This site 
is too valuable to throw away." 

“Wall, sir, now ye're talkin' hoss sense; but 
tha's only one out about it, an' that is, I'd be get- 
tin' all yer furniture and stuff fer nothin'. Ye 
must of put a lot o' money in here." 

“Don't let that trouble you — you're more than 
welcome to it all, and you can sell it, keep it, or 
give it away. It's all yours. It isn't that I be¬ 
lieve in ghosts, but I simply can't live in this old 
house, and the furnishings wouldn’t fit the new 
one that I intend to build. 

“And now, Higby, I want you and Henneker 
to come up tomorrow evening and we'll have a 
little dinner and a bottle of good cheer — a sort of 
farewell party, you know." 

[ 306 ] 


“And what air ye goin’t’ do with Minnie ?” 

“Her plans are a little unsettled, but she’ll be 
well taken care of.” 

“Gad! I hope ye can git her back agin when ye 
build yer new house. She’s sure made a big hit 
with me — the finest gal I ever see’d.” 

Monday was hot and sultry, and when the two 
men arrived at sundown, dressed in their best 
Sunday regalia, a portentous thunderstorm was 
gathering in the northwest. The great thunder 
clouds were pushing their protuberant heads up 
like mountain tops against the heavens, and the 
rumbling in the distance was almost continuous. 
The horses were unhitched and put in the stable, 
and as we came out Higby looked about at the 
swirling rifts of clouds, some going one way, 
some another, as they were caught in the swift 
currents of air overhead, though on the ground 
there was scarcely a breath stirring. “Looks to 
me like we’d git some wind up here, th’ way them 
clouds is headin’ up.” 

As we approached the house it grew suddenly 
dark, the leaves began to rustle in the topmost 
branches of the trees, and those forerunners of 
storm, in the shape of patches of tempest-borne 
clouds, went scouting over our heads like an 
advance-guard of the heavy artillery that boomed 
in the rear. 


[ 307 ] 


As we sat down to dinner the storm broke with 
great violence, and through the windows in the 
glare of the lightning we could see the trees rock¬ 
ing and churning about as though the wrath of 
all the Furies were being vented upon them. The 
windows and doors clattered as if an army were 
outside clamoring for admittance, and the sheets 
of rain beating against the window panes re¬ 
minded one of wave-washed port holes in a storm 
at sea. Minnie sat at my right, with Higby op¬ 
posite me, on her right, while Henneker faced 
Minnie on my left. The wine was poured, and 
I rose to offer the initial toast. — 

“My good friends, we are here to celebrate an 
important epoch in the history of this old house. 
The storms of more than a hundred and fifty 
years have beaten from all quarters against its 
outer walls, and perhaps the inner walls have 
witnessed as many tragedies and death-bed scenes. 
The fact that so many of its occupants have sacri¬ 
ficed their lives to some unpropitious fate has 
given it a bad name; and like a dog accredited 
with having killed his master, it would be im¬ 
possible ever to reinstate it in the confidence and 
esteem of the community. If people are timid 
about living in a house where one death has 
occurred from natural causes, what would be 
their revulsion against occupying a structure in 

[ 308 ] 


which nearly every room has been the scene of a 
murder, or a death from some contagious disease! 
And especially since the walls are reputed at times 
to echo the cries and death struggles of some of 
the sufferers. As festering blemishes on the skin 
denote a disordered body, so the partitions of this 
house attest its unwholesome atmosphere, some 
part of which seems to have been absorbed from 
each unhappy victim; and as the soul of a diseased 
body is in imminent danger of being deprived of 
its mortal vestments, the occupants of this house 
seem to be equally in danger of losing their mor¬ 
tal existence. 

“Instead of abandoning this historic landmark 
with its beautiful surroundings I have decided to 
have it dismantled and taken away. To our friend 
Higby I have delegated the task of removing it 
from this site; and along with it I hope will 
disappear all the bad luck with which it is said 
to be saturated. 

“But notwithstanding the woeful traditions of 
this ill-fated house, in which I have within the 
space of a few weeks been tormented, arrested, 
shot down, and scared half to death by one of 
those animals employed in Biblical language as 
the symbol of lost souls, — notwithstanding all 
this, I say, — it has been a great boon to me. In¬ 
deed I owe it about the same sort of gratitude 

[ 309 ] 


that you would feel toward a miserly, rheumatic 
old grouch of an uncle who after starving and 
otherwise abusing you, finally bequeathed you the 
accumulated hoardings of a lifetime, because he 
had no one else to leave them to. In this ini¬ 
quitous old house — if such a term may be applied 
to an inanimate object — I have found a great 
treasure — not in the form of stocks or bonds, or 
money, or precious jewels, but a priceless treasure, 
to be coveted and cherished above all other earth¬ 
ly possessions — the love of a good woman. 

“Gentlemen, let us drink to the health of Min¬ 
nie, the future Mrs. Garret Fletcher, and the mis¬ 
tress of the reconstructed Evergreens.” 

They both sprang to their feet and emptied 
their glasses. Higby stood twisting his chin, pre¬ 
paratory to making some response, when sudden¬ 
ly the whole heavens seemed to burst into a flame, 
with a deafening crash that shook the house and 
stunned us almost into insensibility. A terrific 
bolt of lightning had struck, and it sounded as if 
every utensil in the house had been demolished. 
We all rushed frantically about the rooms, and 
going upstairs I found that one of the great stone 
chimneys had toppled over and crashed through 
the roof. 

Presently Higbv’s voice rang out from below — 
“Fire! Fire!” I ran downstairs and found the 

[ 310 ] 


kitchen in flames. The big kitchen stove was 
overturned, and while we had been investigating 
elsewhere the fire gained considerable headway. 
As I rushed in to see what had become of the 
cook I stumbled over her prostrate form on the 
floor. We carried her out, and leaving her in 
charge of Minnie we returned to extinguish the 
fire. But there being less than a bucketful of 
water in the kitchen we gave up hope of saving 
the house, and all hands set to work getting out 
the furniture. Before the flames reached the up¬ 
per floor we succeeded in removing nearly every¬ 
thing of value, though in the excitement we 
neglected to carry the heaviest pieces far enough 
away, and most of them afterwards caught fire 
and burned up. Fortunately the cook was only 
stunned and she regained her senses soon after 
being removed into the open air. 

When the building was all aflame we stood 
huddled under an appletree out beyond the front 
gate in the pouring rain and watched it burn 
down. 

Higby was sure he could see the little imps 
dancing about in the flames and poking the burn¬ 
ing timbers with their pitchforks. When the 
roof caved in and the crackling flames were con¬ 
suming the furniture that had been left in too 
close proximity to the house Higby, after stand- 

[ 3 11 ] 


ing for some time in mournful silence, broke out 
with a heavy sigh. — 

“Wall, wall! it sure took the fires from Heaven 
to clean out that awful place! I thought the 
furniture and things was all goin' to be mine; 
but th' Good Lord seems to hev had other uses 
fer 'em. I reckon, after all, th' aint much use of 
a feller expectin' t' git anything wuth while in 
this world ‘thout workin' fer it." 

“Poor old house!" sighed Minnie, standing 
with her arm through mine. “It had an awful 
reputation, but after all it was the means of my 
finding you. And you have made me so happy!" 
she whispered, tightening her arm and looking 
up at me, while the glow of the flames played up¬ 
on her flushed cheeks and disclosed the love-light 
in her expressive eyes. — “I wish everyone could 
be as happy as I am tonight." 


[ 312 ] 


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